It drags on forever—this heavy, amber day!
How unsufferable is grief, how futile the wait!
And once more comes the silver voice of the deer
From the menagerie, telling of the northern lights.
And I, too, believed that somewhere there was cold snow,
And a bright blue font for the poor and the ill,
And the unsteady dash of little sleighs
Under the ancient droning of distant bells.