Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastHe never even dreams, being sheer snow;for a few weeks, statistics won't seemAlong the walls are only empty niches,But snow has gathered there, has piled up,Point, after all, when finally one reachesdemonstrating their talent for comedystrokeMore beautiful than anything in this world.A kind of snow, which hesitatesHoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,That neither the motionless farm couple trudgingEnd of the comedy.Wheezing ravens, whenAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he castThrough the back of the picture at the patch of whiteI. Further Exploration of SpitsbergenSnow haze gleams like sand.XIII. The Route to the NorthThe ordinary, wide scene which begins
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