Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
Writhing their stunted limbs,
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
It is as though I were at a second threshold.
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.
A frame of glided twilight—I
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
High on this surface, guarding the edge of Père
My only thought is for what has
Seen. What you know is only manifest
Are gliding toward me on the ice into
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Is the moon to grow
Is the moon to grow
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,
Sphinx of questioning substance, or a sort