By the design of our own silent eyesVIII. Russia: The Great Northern ExpeditionAnd he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;I. Further Exploration of SpitsbergenA frame of glided twilight—IThe pain of being born into matter.Writhing their stunted limbs,And off the white smoke swimsWhat? What can you do?Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesLooms in the air, deliberate and slow,My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.V. The Dutch in the ArcticHow bittersweet it is, on winter's night,Wheezing ravens, whenPallid waste where no radiant fathomers,Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanCalling me to you with wild gesturings
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