Drew

"Now it's my turn to sing!"
And piled up at the base of the columns
He is harsh, dismal, ice�that is, exiled;
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Like some poor wounded wretch�long left for dead
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Sought to contrive, intending to express
At the white place of the road's vanishing
That desire has ever built, have approached
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Appear to lift up from the lake;
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
That this mud draws on the stone.
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,