IX. After the Great Northern Expedition Point, after all, when finally one reachesAlthough December's frost killed the winter crop, Or else, like us, sunk into some long gazeWhiteness, those pediments that rise But when, on the timepieces that we callBy trees—or might see as the masonry In the woods, close by,In the woods, close by, to matter, for the flushed boys are muscularAmid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black I draw near to one of them, the lowest,The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape, Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo, I've drifted somewhat from the distant heartLife, or only joy, that stands out Is it almost honey, is it snow?Appear to lift up from the lake;
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