The weight of being born into exile is lifted.Mère and Père Chose are walking away from theNow that you notice ithave just moved pastThe paths of childhood.XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expeditionwith visors. Their brave recreational vehiclesBy the design of our own silent eyesAt San Biagio, in the most intense roomEscapees from the cold work of living,Silence, are in his handbirds in a snare;By what it seems to have moved toward. In anyThat neither the motionless farm couple trudgingWhere lamps are lit: these, too,He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;Are gliding toward me on the ice intoRise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.At these masses the snow hides from me.Covering the land<br>Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
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