With its lament, it often sounds, instead,Given by nature will soak into it.Still has to be intoned, as in a lonelyand the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,Blurring the terrain,By what it seems to have moved toward. In anyUnreadable from behind—they are well downLike theirs ends? From what distant point of visionAnd he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesThat neither the motionless farm couple trudgingOne flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His BayBut snow has gathered there, has piled up,Figures of light and dark, these two are walkingArchangel Winter, darkness on his backUpon from the right by far trees, that white placeYour gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeThe weight of being born into exile is lifted.
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