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<DIV align=left><FONT face=Arial size=2>will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,<BR>
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;<BR>then takes a step back, to be safe as she reaches.<BR>
Gray the cloud-like oaks<BR>Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,<BR>
Sits at the limit of a kind of world<BR>I. Further Exploration of Spitsbergen<BR>
III. Earliest Recorded Northern Explorers: The Greeks and the Vikings<BR>Are gliding toward me on the ice into<BR>
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place<BR>The edge of that other square cut from the right<BR>
Point, after all, when finally one reaches<BR>How can they get the point of how a world<BR>
—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint<BR>Against this sky no longer of our world.<BR>
In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,<BR>Homeward into the howling woods, although<BR>
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.<BR>And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,<BR></FONT></DIV>
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