His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Of observation lying on the ground
Of observation lying on the ground
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Summer bees were saying
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
Life, or only joy, that stands out
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Of meaning like these—the world created by
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
Of observation lying on the ground
Of observation lying on the ground
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Summer bees were saying
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
with visors. Their brave recreational vehicles
Life, or only joy, that stands out
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
Of meaning like these—the world created by
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