These are the desolate, dark years,

When nature in its barrenness

Equals the cupidity of man.

The year warms into night,

And the heart cools

At the common plight.

An empty, searing place inside,

A sun without stars or moon,

But a peculiar light as of thought

That feels a dark fire –

Whirling upon itself, grows

In the cold and kindles

To make a man aware of nothing

That he knows, not emptiness

Itself – Not the past, but

Would be self-inflicted emptiness,

Despair – (They whine and roar

Among the flashes and booms of war).

Here the heat is more than can be accounted for.

The life is gone that we loved,

The flower beds lying empty,

The yards dry, the cars unused –

Hide it away somewhere

Out of the mind, let it creep and grow,

Unconscious to watchful ears