Art

the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
XVII. Greenland
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
The pain of being born into matter.
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
The purest form is always the one
Figures of light and dark, these two are walking
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration