In a sky of iron, the points of the Dipper hung like icicles, 

and, in the stillness, the call of a bird.

A figure advanced alone,

seemingly a part of the mute melancholy landscape, 

an incarnation of its frozen woe.

He lived in a depth of moral isolation,

with all that was warm and sentient in him bound below the surface,

seized with an unreasoning dread of being left alone,

he saw his life before him as it was.

The crash of a loaded branch falling far off in the woods,

the flit of a bird in the branches.

Looking straight up he saw a single star,

and thought that he would sleep; 

but, all he imparted left long reverberations, 

and echoes he could wake at will. 

The clumps of trees in the snow seemed to draw together,

like birds with their heads under their wings.

More snow began to fall, 

the winter night itself descending,

leaving the Earth more alone.