In covered light, a sticking snow, straight down, hissing in the trees,
Then night, how the wind feasts and spins, how the furnace shakes,
Then watch while darkness, like an ape's face, falls away,
Then gradually the world, the stacked partitions of the day,
Comes to each of us alone; we did not ask for this, but stay.
–Thick with the moods of Hart Crane.
