These

are the desolate, dark weeks
when nature in its barrenness
equals the stupidity of man.

The year plunges into night
and the heart plunges
lower than night

to an empty,windswept place
without sun, stars or moon
but a peculiar light as of thought

that spins a dark fire –
whirling upon itself until,
in the cold, it kindles

to make a man aware of nothing
that he knows, not loneliness
itself – Not a ghost but

would be embraced – emptiness,
despair – (They
whine and whistle) among