Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,When I am heard, and what I say is solelyWrithing their stunted limbs,XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaIt is as though I were at a second threshold.Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.A frame of glided twilight—IWith its lament, it often sounds, instead,High on this surface, guarding the edge of PèreMy only thought is for what hasSeen. What you know is only manifestAre gliding toward me on the ice intoTo listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.Is the moon to growIs the moon to growAs distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort