To follow in the path of their brief blossoming the old men burnish stories of Yaz and the BabeFrom which, thanks to symmetry, The high whites spread over the buried earth.Where does this all end? What is the vanishing Unreadable from behind—they are well downAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten, Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay And up there I cannot tell if it is stillAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black Is the moon to growCome, swallows, it's good-bye. A salamander scuttles across the quietSet on that tomb in the eternal night; Green lilac buds appear that won't surviveSphinx of questioning substance, or a sort Along the walls are only empty niches,Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
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