It's snowing, it's returning to a town
their bellies, they're out cold, instantaneously
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
This perfection, this absence.
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
Oh you builders,
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
By trees—or might see as the masonry
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
I draw near to one of them, the lowest,
Bronze the sky, with no
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
XXI. Flying in the Arctic
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
In a single floral stroke,