The shuttered inn, the icy lane, the hoar

Alley transmuted at the keen moon's cost

To silver birch from leaden sycamore,

The shivering steps, the door that barely stands

Ajar, the altar's weekday thrift of gold,

The hasty breath that dews my helpless hands,

At what white heat I come through this white cold:

How before day blows up the smouldering sun

I feed my ashen hope with kindling phrase,

Cast fuel on my faith, watch the flame run