The text of a spam I got this morning

Away from their profundity of surface.
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
To follow in the path of their brief blossoming
Seems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.
whose soft bristles graze the top-racks.
And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bring
To reach out into its own vanishing
Away from their profundity of surface.
Yes. The obvious
By trees—or might see as the masonry
XIII. The Route to the North
Of too much truth to do much more than lie
XVI. Laying a Ghost: The Jeannette and the Fram
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
and the Splendid Splinter. For a few dreamy dollars,
Along the walls are only empty niches,
That images of roads, whether composed
VIII. Russia: The Great Northern Expedition