What is there in the depths of these wallsVII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His BayTraces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponThe purest form is always the oneAt these masses the snow hides from me.Where does this all end? What is the vanishingBronze the sky, with nothen takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushTo run, as in the time of the bee, seekingAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Only a fox whose den I cannot find.Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsV. The Dutch in the ArcticLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!Oh you builders,Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
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