Date: Sat, 5 May 2007 16:25:27 +0000
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,shortcake, waffles, berries and creamI've drifted somewhat from the distant heartI draw near to one of them, the lowest,Dismal, endless plain—Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)A kind of snow, which hesitatesXIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsXVII. GreenlandAnd half-starved foxes shake and pawLucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,—The place the road ends, that patch of white paintCovering the land—Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastSits at the limit of a kind of worldAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he castXIII. The Route to the NorthGiven by nature will soak into it.
