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XXI. Flying in the ArcticA frame of glided twilight—IIn the woods, close by,My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,IX. After the Great Northern ExpeditionOnly a fox whose den I cannot find.It's snowing, it's returning to a townAstonished that you have returned to goUnreadable from behind—they are well downAlong the walls are only empty niches,End of the comedy.Is the moon to growHe never even dreams, being sheer snow;Billows the fog, cloaksPreface to the 1948 EditionNor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.I might have happily lived some other childhood.Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for deadmarked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached










XXI. Flying in the Arctic
A frame of glided twilight—I
In the woods, close by,
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
IX. After the Great Northern Expedition
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Astonished that you have returned to go
Unreadable from behind—they are well down
Along the walls are only empty niches,
End of the comedy.
Is the moon to grow
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
Billows the fog, cloaks
Preface to the 1948 Edition
Nor, indeed, the bit of paint itself can know of.
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead
marked with a dark stroke from the left, encroached
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