Dismal, endless plain— Close at the end of distance the two ChoseThat neither the motionless farm couple trudging XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely ExpeditionWhen I am heard, and what I say is solely Winds blow sharp, what then?In stone waves and rock waters, far from day, marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedYes. The obvious Wind, sleet. The branches sway,Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a woman Escapees from the cold work of living,Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form. And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringDown the long course of the gray slush of things And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,I. Arctic Scenery And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
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