Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to passfor a few weeks, statistics won't seemThrough the back of the picture at the patch of whiteThey move against, or through, or by, or toward.So, startled, quivering,and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menSome stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,But snow has gathered there, has piled up,But what I am looking at is hardened snow,Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)That this mud draws on the stone.Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.Only a fox whose den I cannot find.II. List of Franklin Search PartiesHe is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;Pierced by the mist that fades away,Coextensive with everything? How could they know?I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongwonders if she'd ever be brave enough