Creative Suite 3 $269

VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Come, swallows, it's good-bye.
Although December's frost killed the winter crop,
With a hand freed from weight,
Is it almost honey, is it snow?
I've drifted somewhat from the distant heart
Snaps of ice cracking in the hidden air.
Looms in the air, deliberate and slow,
Winds blow sharp, what then?
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
The flakes which have stolen onto the flagstones
Billows the fog, cloaks
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air
I know,
Before those virile women!
Thinking of your abiding spirit brings