Classic Poem

Stumble upon this block. You wangle when
You come to seize the bright strap-hanging pen,
In an overcoat-pocket. (This is the block you've seen
Midway to the big sporting guillotine.)
Come now, crestfallen! I'll cut off your crest.
Come now, crude angel, I'll give you of my best!
I'm not half the man to bivouac just half-way.
No half-way house beyond the frosty bay
Is a stone beacon. Yesterday's enough.
Come now, my curlew! The icepack's up to snuff,
And the young ice is strong. Come now, Bellerophon
Spliced with the Twilight. My little sun-myth, come!
Let us together hunt the Chimaera. Look
Leonine-headed near this arctic brook.
When and for which? Because when all is done
And said and left unsaid I'm the first fearless one
To have faced the pressure ridges and gone out.
There are three standard manners of dugout
To be made, with a lot of other ways. What then?
I can write Limbo-lingo with the best of men.
There's no man can blot out the sense—there's none
Has a better anaesthetic in his gun.
I've travelled on far thinner ice than this
There's nothing I can't do without a kiss.