Onto my frozen fingers.
My only thought is for what has
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Over the chilly dale.
To reach out into its own vanishing
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Over the chilly dale.
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
Is the moon to grow
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Astonished that you have returned to go
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Covering the land—
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
Summer bees were saying
My only thought is for what has
Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Over the chilly dale.
To reach out into its own vanishing
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Over the chilly dale.
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings
Is the moon to grow
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Astonished that you have returned to go
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Covering the land—
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
Summer bees were saying
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