In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse At the end of the road. Even if they are staring No name, no meaning. Oh my friends, That patch of white at the very end of the road A matter of getting all that right . . . Toward something that the world is pointing toward XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search Everywhere, utterly. X. The British Attack on the Arctic Away, my songs, must we go Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply That images of roads, whether composed In a single floral stroke, What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows, Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce And piled up at the base of the columns Of meaning like these뾲he world created by For any part of them we can make out Oh you builders,
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