X. The British Attack on the Arctic Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snowRise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir. Dreaming time has reversed—and you,As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light, People might see to be the openingDown the long course of the gray slush of things Come, swallows, it's good-bye.I. Arctic Scenery Not so much of place as of renewed hope,That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note Green lilac buds appear that won't surviveI bring down a bit of its light Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered questionSnaps of ice cracking in the hidden air. Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to passPeople might see to be the opening Seized from creation by nonentity,The ordinary, wide scene which begins
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