Down the long course of the gray slush of things Toward the still dab of white that oscillatesThis third day of our January thaw, and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menRain. We are forced to fly, In the woods, close by,Your gloved hands covering your lips' good-bye I. Arctic SceneryOnly a fox whose den I cannot find. Cuts out of its width (81). UnfairAcross the heavens' gray. With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,My keyhole blows a gale Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,That squareOh, 56 x 56 Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arcVII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowUnreadable from behindthey are well down
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