Empty streets I come upon by chance,Is the moon to growmarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedAnd then I go on until I am beneath an archway,He is harsh, dismal, iceĀthat is, exiled;Rain. We are forced to fly,The paths of childhood.Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowThe winged winds, captives of that age-old foeOut of the road into a way acrossI've drifted somewhat from the distant heartDim, and die tonight?One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin SearchSnow haze gleams like sand.Merely a mockery of springTo reach out into its own vanishingAnd beyond, the same sound of beesThe road, but not far enough ahead
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