Chapter VIII

Now the snow drives. The day Goes on in whirling gray. Still the world roars, As if no striving flame Had gone, as it suddenly came, Passing blind doors;

As if no eyes, no smile, No heart that could beguile Evil from earth, Had hovered just a space To light one holy place In the dark and the dearth.

Was it always as fierce and strange-- This blank and sudden change Men have known ever? This veil as hard and keen As the blade of a guillotine Flashing to sever?

Oh, ears that hark in the night, Eyeballs that strain for sight, Pulses that know The same dull burning ache, Though a man sleep, though he wake,-- Was it always so?