Across the heavens' gray.Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly formHomeward into the howling woods, althoughXV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely ExpeditionThe earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,What is there in the depths of these wallsEmpty streets I come upon by chance,"Now it's my turn to sing!"Close at the end of distance the two ChoseOh you builders,His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;Seen. What you know is only manifestTraces of those deep cuts lie thickly uponPallid waste where no radiant fathomers,—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintBlurring the terrain,It's snowing, it's returning to a town
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