Still has to be intoned, as in a lonelyAllowing me to let your picture form and wakeAre gliding toward me on the ice intoXI. Franklin's Last VoyageBeneath a pile of corpses, lying massedPierced by the mist that fades away,XIX Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaAgain awaken from your being gone to findAnd beyond, the same sound of beesA matter of getting all that right . . .And so I gaze avidly(Our fortitude grows dim inNot daring to opposeDismal, endless plain—One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitousIn the sound of the snow. What the countlessThat this mud draws on the stone.To reach out into its own vanishing
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