With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
A kind of snow, which hesitates
XIII. The Route to the North
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
(Our fortitude grows dim in
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
That this mud draws on the stone.
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
A kind of snow, which hesitates
XIII. The Route to the North
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
And up there I cannot tell if it is still
(Our fortitude grows dim in
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
snowdrops and crocuses might be fooled
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
That this mud draws on the stone.
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,
then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.
Coextensive with everything? How could they know?
Sits at the limit of a kind of world
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
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