- With a hand freed from weight,
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
Snow haze gleams like sand.
Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,
And half-starved foxes shake and paw
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
That neither the motionless farm couple trudging
The snowflakes are swirling, blotting out
shaded by live oaks and bottlebrush trees
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
At four, the spectators leave in pairs, off
Dim, and die tonight?
From there. Toward . . .
My soul lies cracked; and when, in its despair,
As if your human shape were what the storm
At the end of the road. Even if they are staring