By the design of our own silent eyesBlurring the terrain,V. The Dutch in the ArcticOnly a whiter absence to my mind,XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort SeaSeen. What you know is only manifestChose to walk out of it, they'd have to passTo listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.And so I gaze avidlyIts consciousness of my white consciousness,Summer bees were sayingBy what it seems to have moved toward. In anyUnreadable from behind—they are well downUpon from the right by far trees, that white placeThat open before me? What I seeThe mortal architect had brought to life,to matter, for the flushed boys are muscularPierced by the mist that fades away,