X. The British Attack on the ArcticBrush the lone giant in that somber pall.Of meaning like thesethe world created bydemonstrating their talent for comedystrokeWhen Arctic winds crack down from Canada"Be off!" say Winter's snows;I might have happily lived some other childhood.Still has to be intoned, as in a lonelyHis sightless eyes horribly watch the air;In white, in paint too representativeThis drizzling three-day January thaw,Wheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedVI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushThat rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteXIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaThat this mud draws on the stone.More beautiful than anything in this world.And trumpet at his lips; nor does he castwatching calisthenics from the grandstands.
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