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That patch of white at the very end of the roadWhat? What can you do?Across the heavens' gray.II. List of Franklin Search Partiesand chaste, lovely as lakes to the retired menThe pain of being born into matter.Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.XXI. Flying in the ArcticPealing, it tries to fill the cold night airVI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil RushIn realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasseSits at the limit of a kind of worldIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeV. The Dutch in the ArcticBy trees—or might see as the masonryThat images of roads, whether composedPallid waste where no radiant fathomers,Not so much of place as of renewed hope,—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint