All out of doors looked darkly in at him

Through the thin frost almost in separate stars

That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.

What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze

Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.

What kept him from remembering what it was

That brought him to that creaking room was age.

He stood with barrels round him—at a loss.

And having scared the cellar under him

In clomping there he scared it once again

In clomping off;—and scared the outer night

Which has its sounds familiar like the roar

Of trees and crack of branches common things

But nothing so like beating on a box.

A light he was to no one but himself

Where now he sat concerned with he knew what

A quiet light and then not even that.

He consigned to the moon such as she was

So late-arising to the broken moon

As better than the sun in any case

For such a charge his snow upon the roof

His icicles along the wall to keep;

And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt

Once in the stove disturbed him and he shifted

And eased his heavy breathing but still slept.

One aged man—one man—can’t keep a house

A farm a countryside or if he can

It’s thus he does it of a winter night.