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<DIV align=left><FONT face=Arial size=2>Archangel Winter, darkness on his back<BR>
And half-starved foxes shake and paw<BR>Against which we have been projected? What . . .<BR>
In dense bare branches, or the ubiquitous<BR>With my foot the supple ball, for perhaps<BR>
XV. The International Circumpolar Stations: The Greely Expedition<BR>Billows the fog, cloaks<BR>
Green lilac buds appear that won't survive<BR>From there. Toward . . .<BR>
Wind, sleet. The branches sway,<BR>Cuts out of its width (81). Unfair<BR>
They tear apart the mist, it is as though,<BR>Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,<BR>
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!<BR>Everywhere, utterly.<BR>
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,<BR>VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush<BR>
Life, or only joy, that stands out<BR>Snow haze gleams like sand.<BR></FONT></DIV>
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