Do not rush the spring, for winter has its Nordic hell museum of
blue deaths, grass turned straw, leaves black, skies gray, light dim
There is enough, much, to sense while the cold and damp suck the
heat from your neck
Become a familiar and look forward to your promotion to Siberia
Winter, a slow spring, short summer and a handful of elegaic days of
high-latitude autumn turn toward winter, again, and as inmates
of our own independence we hope, then fear, then hope again for
arrival of the Prince Regent and the game set afoot anew
But try it on, how lies the cold through the gear?
What sled will you need to reach Irkutz, how many dogs?
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