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Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Gray the cloud-like oaks
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
Appear to lift up from the lake;
Dim, and die tonight?
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
So, startled, quivering,
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
What can we know of whatever picture-plane