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IV. The Paths to Cathay
Alberti, Brunelleschi, Sangallo,Its consciousness of my white consciousness,
Want anything said at all, which I still doubt)Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
"Now it's my turn to sing!"Centimetersthat the height of the canvas
With its lament, it often sounds, instead,Close at the end of distance the two Chose
Appear to lift up from the lake;And beyond, the same sound of bees
XX. To the PoleLike an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent!
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,Snow haze gleams like sand.
Cascading snowflakes settle in the pines,Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,XIX. Jones Sound and Beaufort Sea

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