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He had stepped out into the bare cold yard,
Struck with the suddenness of silence, fearing
That he could yet grow far more hard
Of hearing;
He shuddered and then turned his gaze aloft,
Hoping for something more but, being
Bathed in a milder light, his eyes felt soft
Of seeing;
Where the wind shook him, waiting at the rim
Of darkening there, almost jelling
The winter air within, he was left dim
Of smelling;
Spicing the faithful pie to no avail
Or carefully and dutifully basting
The hopeful roast likewise, when all is pale
Of tasting,
He touched his own head from within, to prowl
The precincts of thought; then thought, congealing,
Left him not numb, but only rather foul
Of feeling,
His begging cup each year remaining full
Of less and less from unforgiving
Nature, though he not quite yet terminal
Of living.
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Browse back issues of The Atlantic that have appeared on the Web. From September 1995 to the present, the archive is essentially complete, with the exception of a few articles, the online rights to which are held exclusively by the authors.
See All Back Issues: September 1995
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The Pseudo-Suburbanist's Dilemma
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