XIV. Franz Josef Land: The Amazing Drift of the Tegetthoff
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Never does any motion, sound, or light
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Is the moon to grow
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
I know,
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Toward something that the world is pointing toward
Late February, and the air's so balmy
Shadows keep piling up as surfaces
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
Never does any motion, sound, or light
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Pierced by the mist that fades away,
Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
As if your absence now concluded long ago.
Is the moon to grow
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
I know,
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Left and right, and far ahead in the dusk.