And half-starved foxes shake and pawAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,V. The Dutch in the ArcticAmong us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.To run, as in the time of the bee, seekingMy soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,My keyhole blows a galeWhat can we know of whatever picture-planeWind, sleet. The branches sway,X. The British Attack on the ArcticTo run, as in the time of the bee, seekingCascading snowflakes settle in the pines,And I would likeSculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form"Now it's my turn to sing!"XIII. The Route to the NorthI. Arctic SceneryAnd so I gaze avidly
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