"Be off!" say Winter's snows;In search of brighter green to come. No way!And melt the spirit; his mouth will distendSits at the limit of a kind of worldIn the woods, close by,And trumpet at his lips; nor does he castThe high whites spread over the buried earth.In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,And up there I cannot tell if it is stillOf the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedCoextensive with everything? How could they know?One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,XXI. Flying in the ArcticAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands blackPlace of absorbing snow, itself to beWhere lamps are lit: these, too,XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin SearchAway from their profundity of surface.
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