Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
A pallid yellow lingers
Yes. The obvious
But snow has gathered there, has piled up,
Standing in the way of the truth. A white
>From point to point of meaning—open? closed?—
watching calisthenics from the grandstands.
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
A rabbit carcass in its stiffened fur.
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
on their own little seat cushions, wearing soft caps
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay