Wheezing ravens, whenPoint, after all, when finally one reachesWith its lament, 
it often sounds, instead,Allowing me to let your picture form and wakeLooms in 
the air, deliberate and slow,The form sought for centuries byI am sleeping, and 
dreaming, and wandering alongIt's snowing, it's returning to a townAppear to 
lift up from the lake;will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Like theirs 
ends? From what distant point of visionBy the design of our own silent eyesXX. 
To the Polemarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedThat square—Oh, 
56 x 56VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushLike some poor wounded wretch—long 
left for deadWhen Arctic winds crack down from CanadaReferences



[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]



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