I. Further Exploration of SpitsbergenThat desire has ever built, have approachedAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackBlurring the terrain,Late February, and the air's so balmyBy the design of our own silent eyesXX. To the PoleTo run, as in the time of the bee, seekingIn the woods, close by,Is it almost honey, is it snow?Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,"Be off!" say Winter's snows;Empty streets I come upon by chance,Beneath the snowflakes I notice façadesMère and Père Chose are walking away from theDim, and die tonight?Toward something that the world is pointing towardBefore those virile women!The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
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