IN the cold, cold days, when the sun stands still,
When we've noised and drank and ate our fill,
Then the flat time comes, and the small sounds grow
Into more than we could have expected, or know.
In the silence lost, in the drifts misplaced,
Where the way in is shut, where the way out is laced
With the poisons set out in the long ago
For whomever might trespass -- but, even so --
There's a time when we'll eat, be whatever the crumbs;
There's a a place every feeling's just one more that numbs --
Though we cannot see where, and we do not know how,
There is more to this life than just what
We see now
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