As it sits there like an eventual
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
The pain of being born into matter.
Against which we have been projected? What . . .
Seized from creation by nonentity,
I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along
Across the heavens' gray.
Choces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fields
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
snoozing. A schoolgirl on vacation gapes,
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Over the chilly dale.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Some stubborn sprouts up through the stubble hay,
Writhing their stunted limbs,
Of Boyg of Normandy . .