XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heartPoint, after all, when finally one reaches
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outWhen I am heard, and what I say is solely
—Now that you notice it—have just moved past—The place the road ends, that patch of white paint
Trampled snow is the only rose.Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
Dim, and die tonight?Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
Bronze the sky, with noFloating on the sky.
wonders if she'd ever be brave enoughTrampled snow is the only rose.
This perfection, this absence.Along the walls are only empty niches,
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His BayAnd trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast