Thinking of your abiding spirit brings
That images of roads, whether composedNever does any motion, sound, or light
I bring down a bit of its lightToward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
And then I go on until I am beneath an archway,Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
XXI. Flying in the ArcticIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
A frame of glided twilight—IIn search of brighter green to come. No way!
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at lastVIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Blurring the terrain,Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
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