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whose soft bristles graze the top-racks. With a hand freed from weight,In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,And half-starved foxes shake and pawFloating on the sky.Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night airAway, my songs, must we go As distant memories, through the fog-dimmed light,Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat, Onto my frozen fingers.He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;II. List of Franklin Search PartiesStars, the last day, endless and centerless, Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standIn white, in paint too representative Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have graspedHow bittersweet it is, on winter's night, Is it almost honey, is it snow?