Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
My only thought is for what has
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Would their world not remain comfortably
Would their world not remain comfortably
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
This perfection, this absence.
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"
My only thought is for what has
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Would their world not remain comfortably
Would their world not remain comfortably
will come, blighting our harbingers of spring,
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand
VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
This perfection, this absence.
Homeward into the howling woods, although
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
In search of brighter green to come. No way!
The high whites spread over the buried earth.
Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are
Through the back of the picture at the patch of white
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"