II + 

Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces⁠— + 

We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, + 

Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed, + 

Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. + 

Is it that we are dying? + 

Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed + 

With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; + 

For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; + 

Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed⁠— + 

We turn back to our dying. + 

Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; + 

Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. + 

For God’s invincible spring our love is made afraid; + 

Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, + 

For love of God seems dying. + 

To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, + 

Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp. + 

The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, + 

Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, + 

But nothing happens. + 