Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
Seen. What you know is only manifest
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Is the moon to grow
Of observation lying on the ground
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
IV. The Paths to Cathay
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
To reach out into its own vanishing
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
End of the comedy.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Seen. What you know is only manifest
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Is the moon to grow
Of observation lying on the ground
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
IV. The Paths to Cathay
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
To reach out into its own vanishing
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
End of the comedy.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
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