demonstrating their talent for comedy—stroke
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massedwill be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.
III. Chronology of Northern ExplorationThe surge of swirling wind defines
The edge of that other square cut from the rightAway from their profundity of surface.
A kind of snow, which hesitatesIn the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Are gliding toward me on the ice intoDown the long course of the gray slush of things
Of a far barn, just where the road curves sharplyLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
By the design of our own silent eyesGlimmering of light:
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.XXI. Flying in the Arctic
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