By the design of our own silent eyes
Blurring the terrain,
V. The Dutch in the Arctic
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea
Seen. What you know is only manifest
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
Or by the loud hand of painting, always puts.
And so I gaze avidly
Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Summer bees were saying
By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
That open before me? What I see
The mortal architect had brought to life,
to matter, for the flushed boys are muscular
Pierced by the mist that fades away,