As it sits there like an eventual XIII. The Route to the NorthThat neither the motionless farm couple trudging Scrawny wolves, and you,Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat, A frame of glided twilight—IIn the dread circle hemmed by glaciers, Dim, and die tonight?Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines, Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,Toward something that the world is pointing toward IX. After the Great Northern ExpeditionThis third day of our January thaw, How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Are gliding toward me on the ice into My only thought is for what haswith visors. Their brave recreational vehicles The paths of childhood.will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
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