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 the flashes and booms of war; houses of whose rooms the cold is greater than can be thought, the people gone that we loved, the beds lying empty, the couches damp, the chairs unused – Hide it away somewhere out of the mind, let it get roots and grow, unrelated to jealous ears and eyes – for itself. In this mine they come to dig – all. Is this the counterfoil to sweetest music? The source of poetry that seeing the clock stopped, says, The clock has stopped that ticked yesterday so well? and hears the sound of lakewater splashing – that is now stone.