This perfection, this absence. That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious noteOr by the loud hand of painting, always puts. One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;As it sits there like an eventual Late February, and the air's so balmyshortcake, waffles, berries and cream What can we know of whatever picture-planeUpon from the right by far trees, that white place VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His BayNot so much of place as of renewed hope, In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseand turn it into something cartoon-funny. Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night airMy soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair, Escapees from the cold work of living,Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
<<PPI5GVE997L8ZMN.gif>>
