VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
and chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired men
How bittersweet it is, on winter's night,
In Florida, it's strawberry season?BR> Close at the end of distance the
two Chose
And the worlds--skiffs rudderless, rolling on?BR> The ordinary, wide scene
which begins
Down the long course of the gray slush of things
Whiteness, those pediments that rise
What is there in the depths of these walls
Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form.
Life, or only joy, that stands out
By the design of our own silent eyes
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Where does this all end? What is the vani****ng
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
III. Chronology of Northern Exploration
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
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