By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Given by nature will soak into it.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
To have been claimed by what we see of what
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Summer bees were saying
For any part of them we can make out
Given by nature will soak into it.
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
People might see to be the opening
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
To watch me watch drowned snow lift from the lake.
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Given by nature will soak into it.
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye
To have been claimed by what we see of what
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Summer bees were saying
For any part of them we can make out
Given by nature will soak into it.
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
People might see to be the opening
Still has to be intoned, as in a lonely
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
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