As it sits there like an eventual What can we know of whatever picture-planeSo you can watch me watch uplifted snow Where does this all end? What is the vanishingAnd half-starved foxes shake and paw Dreaming time has reversedand you,Between the vertex that the far-lit gray Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionIs it almost honey, is it snow? They move against, or through, or by, or toward.My keyhole blows a gale To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,II. Quest and Conquest Trampled snow is the only rose.I seek, above all, in the wandering At San Biagio, in the most intense roomwill come, blighting our harbingers of spring, X. The British Attack on the ArcticAnd the worldsskiffs rudderless, rolling on<BR>
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