XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
Gray the cloud-like oaks
The surge of swirling wind defines
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
In white, in paint too representative
Like some poor wounded wretch-long left for dead
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharply
Over the chilly dale.
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Stunned in their voiceless way to be alive
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
Comes up with as a means to its own end.



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