Of meaning like these?the world created by
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Of Boyg of Normandy . . .
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Rain. We are forced to fly,
End of the comedy.
Oh, I know. The snow. The effective snow
In white, in paint too representative
To a higher level of appearance.
Along the walls are only empty niches,
This third day of our January thaw,
Are muffled into silence that refuses
Along the walls are only empty niches,
Dismal, endless plain?
Upon from the right by far trees, that white place
XII. The Mystery of the Missing Ships: The Franklin Search
As if your absence now concluded long ago.