Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Dismal, endless plain—
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
The purest form is always the one
To reach out into its own vanishing
Dismal, endless plain—
As if your human shape were what the storm
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
Is the moon to grow
Where, as I discover as I go through
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
At the white place of the road's vanishing
Dismal, endless plain—
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
The purest form is always the one
To reach out into its own vanishing
Dismal, endless plain—
As if your human shape were what the storm
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
Is the moon to grow
Where, as I discover as I go through
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
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