XIII. The Route to the NorthAllowing me to let your picture form and wakeWind, sleet. The branches sway,Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushSet on that tomb in the eternal night;To have been claimed by what we see of whatAre muffled into silence that refusesThe snowflakes are swirling, blotting outGrateful, I know, for just such compensations,He never even dreams, being sheer snow;Palladio who beckons from the other shore,He never even dreams, being sheer snow;Where, as I discover as I go throughCovering the land—<br>In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseLate February, and the air's so balmyNot so much of place as of renewed hope,Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
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