XIII. The Route to the Northon their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsYour red cheeks radiant against the wind,Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Seaand the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,Is the moon to growBut when, on the timepieces that we callAnd up there I cannot tell if it is stillAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Only a whiter absence to my mind,In white, in paint too representativeBeyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,Escapees from the cold work of living,The bees are buzzing,I do not betray you, I still go forward,With my foot the supple ball, for perhapssnowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
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