Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form
XIII. The Route to the North
The form sought for centuries by
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
II. Quest and Conquest
Floating on the sky.
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Billows the fog, cloaks
And so I gaze avidly
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Not daring to oppose
Astonished that you have returned to go
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Floating on the sky.
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
XIII. The Route to the North
The form sought for centuries by
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
II. Quest and Conquest
Floating on the sky.
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
Billows the fog, cloaks
And so I gaze avidly
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Not daring to oppose
Astonished that you have returned to go
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Floating on the sky.
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
"Be off!" say Winter's snows;
