G.
H. Luce.
A
Polar
plain
Doleful
with
crisp
encrusted
snows ,
Where if
a morsel
melt ,
a
twinkle
shows
It
straight
is ice
again .
Those
hoops
of steel
That
gird
and
grapple mackerel
skies ,
Which , as the outer
impulse
heaves
and
sighs ,
Swell
and
recoil
and
reel,
Those
gorgeous bars
Have
warped
at last
their
brittle
skein ;
And
from
the
rifted
estuaries
of
rain
And
threshold
of the
stars,
Deathless
and
stark
And
riveted
with
trenchant
dew ,
Blossoms
the
flowery
armour of
the
blue
Beleaguering
the
dark .
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