The tree flourishing at the riverside
Grow on the sturdy root
The foliage fell enrich its ground
The birds nestled among its tendril
Its petiole bore fruits seasonable

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Yes. You'd want that said, (if you
Traces of those deep cuts lie thickly upon
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
XX. To the Pole
Given by nature will soak into it.
Out of the picture of life, as it were, out
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Covering the land—
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Toward . . . that seems to be the whispered question
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
The mortal architect had brought to life,
Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
To listen, by the sputtering, smoking fire,
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Merely a mockery of spring

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