End of the comedy.VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His BayPlace of absorbing snow, itself to beNever does any motion, sound, or lightAs if your human shape were what the stormThe paths of childhood.Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snowYes. The obviousIV. The Paths to CathayIn Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretchingDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsThe mortal architect had brought to life,Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.Not so much of place as of renewed hope,The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstonesXXI. Flying in the ArcticWhiteness, those pediments that riseEscapees from the cold work of living,V. The Dutch in the Arctic
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