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X. The British Attack on the Arctic
Winds blow sharp, what then?
This third day of our January thaw,
At these masses the snow hides from me.
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Is the moon to grow
XIII. The Route to the North
That images of roads, whether composed
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
That desire has ever built, have approached
The line between the outside and this room
(Our fortitude grows dim in
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
I do not betray you, I still go forward,
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