Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
More beautiful than anything in this world.Would their world not remain comfortably
As it sits there like an eventualBut what I am looking at is hardened snow,
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,Where lamps are lit: these, too,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscularTraces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
XI. Franklin's Last VoyageDismal, endless plain
He is harsh, dismal, icethat is, exiled;This drizzling three-day January thaw,
This perfection, this absence.Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroachedStanding in the way of the truth. A white
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