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Life, or only joy, that stands outshaded by live oaks and bottlebrush treesAnd all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,Blurring the terrain,He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;wonders if she'd ever be brave enoughXIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the TegetthoffSilence. Your way of being. Your way of seeingXII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin SearchA salamander scuttles across the quietgiddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,To run, as in the time of the bee, seekingPalladio who beckons from the other shore,His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,At the end of the road. Even if they are staring










Life, or only joy, that stands out
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
And all at once it is the meadow I walked in at ten,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Side of the painting, the world of that wise, white,
Blurring the terrain,
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
wonders if she'd ever be brave enough
XIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
To run, as in the time of the bee, seeking
Palladio who beckons from the other shore,
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
No name, no meaning. Oh my friends,
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring
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