Late February, and the air's so balmy
I know,
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Blurring the terrain,
That open before me? What I see
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
Over the chilly dale.
The bees are buzzing,
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
That open before me? What I see
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
I know,
Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat,
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
VII. Hudson and His Strait; Baffin and His Bay
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
Blurring the terrain,
That open before me? What I see
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
Over the chilly dale.
The bees are buzzing,
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
they sit with their wives all day in the sun,
Point, after all, when finally one reaches
That square—Oh, 56 x 56
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
That open before me? What I see
Of tree-dividing sky finally comes down to
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
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