Date: Sun, 29 Apr 2007 12:39:55 -0300
In the woods, close by,
In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching
And the worlds-skiffs rudderless, rolling on-
M鋨e and P鋨e Chose are walking away from the
Floating on the sky.
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
A kind of snow, which hesitates
The pain of being born into matter.
The paths of childhood.
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
Out of the road into a way across
A frame of glided twilight-I
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
To have been claimed by what we see of what
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
X. The British Attack on the Arctic