That this mud draws on the stone.
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Away, my songs, must we go
XIII. The Route to the North
The purest form is always the one
And I would like
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
From which, thanks to symmetry,
That only you and I can know. Les deux
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
With a hand freed from weight,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Away, my songs, must we go
XIII. The Route to the North
The purest form is always the one
And I would like
Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Between the vertex that the far-lit gray
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
From which, thanks to symmetry,
That only you and I can know. Les deux
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
With a hand freed from weight,
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