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and preening, dancing on the basepaths,Where does this all end? What is the vanishingAs distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest PassagesComes up with as a means to its own end."Now it's my turn to sing!"When Arctic winds crack down from CanadaClose at the end of distance the two ChoseEmpty streets I come upon by chance,By trees—or might see as the masonryI might have happily lived some other childhood.visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atopEnd of the comedy.and the numbed yards will go back undercover.Of too much truth to do much more than lieChose to walk out of it, they'd have to passDismal, endless plain—
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesceOut of the picture of life, as it were, out
and preening, dancing on the basepaths,
Where does this all end? What is the vanishing
As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,
XVIII. The Northeast and Northwest Passages
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
When Arctic winds crack down from Canada
Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Empty streets I come upon by chance,
By trees—or might see as the masonry
I might have happily lived some other childhood.
visitors' dugout. The osprey whose nest is atop
End of the comedy.
and the numbed yards will go back undercover.
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
Chose to walk out of it, they'd have to pass
Dismal, endless plain—
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
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