Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Before those virile women!
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
So, startled, quivering,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Covering the land—
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
In the woods, close by,
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Before those virile women!
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
So, startled, quivering,
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet painted
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Covering the land—
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
In the woods, close by,
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