Williams, William Carlos: These

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.