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A frame of glided twilight—I
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outCascading snowflakes settle in the pines, Onto my frozen fingers.Homeward into the howling woods, although In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,In Winter Haven, the ballplayers are stretching XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passageswhose soft bristles graze the top-racks. The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outWhiteness, those pediments that rise Sits at the limit of a kind of worldThat desire has ever built, have approached At San Biagio, in the most intense roomXVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking End of the comedy.End of the comedy.