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 mind, let it get to 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

William Carlos Williams