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<DIV><FONT face=Arial size=2>there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....<BR>
X. The British Attack on the Arctic<BR>
to try that, to hold a terrifying beast<BR>
Out of the road into a way across<BR>
Event, the end of the painted road ends up<BR>
Sits at the limit of a kind of world<BR>
Is it almost honey, is it snow?<BR>
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;<BR>
At San Biagio, in the most intense room<BR>
Summer bees were saying<BR>
What? What can you do?<BR>
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,<BR>
Like some poor wounded wretch—long left for dead<BR>
Not so much of place as of renewed hope,<BR>
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,<BR>
Is it almost honey, is it snow?<BR>
Wide, whited fields, a way unframed at last<BR>
Dim, and die tonight?<BR>
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,<BR></DIV></BODY></HTML>