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By the design of our own silent eyes
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps
the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the Babe
X. The British Attack on the Arctic
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Away from their profundity of surface.
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
Away, my songs, must we go
the foul pole relaxes. She's raged all afternoon
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
IV. The Paths to Cathay
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last