XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
This third day of our January thaw,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Life, or only joy, that stands out
People might see to be the opening
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Billows the fog, cloaks
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Onto my frozen fingers.
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
This perfection, this absence.
Not daring to oppose
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
The paths of childhood.
Beneath the snowflakes I notice façades
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
This third day of our January thaw,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
And beyond, the same sound of bees
Life, or only joy, that stands out
People might see to be the opening
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Billows the fog, cloaks
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
Onto my frozen fingers.
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
This perfection, this absence.
Not daring to oppose
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
The paths of childhood.
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