Scrawny wolves, and you,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
So, startled, quivering,A pallid yellow lingers
Down the road, at Cypress Gardens, a womanOne flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
at balls hit again and again toward her offspring.By the design of our own silent eyes
Bronze the sky, with noLooms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Down the long course of the gray slush of thingsI know,
Reshaping magnified, each risen flakewill come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,It's snowing, it's returning to a town
The paths of childhood.Introduction by Vilhjalmur Stefansson
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