Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
But when, on the timepieces that we call
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
That this mud draws on the stone.
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
The surge of swirling wind defines
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Event, the end of the painted road ends up
Again awaken from your being gone to find
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
But when, on the timepieces that we call
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
XI. Franklin's Last Voyage
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
That this mud draws on the stone.
Place of absorbing snow, itself to be
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
The surge of swirling wind defines
