They will be cheered with each new child;And the weirdPall of the sky, and the wildTangle of hooped moons piledLike rubbish in the pallid west,Won't trouble them so muchWith what they feared:They'll touchCautiously their children and their lovers—clutchAnything alive.
Not to give in,Men will go on,Cold to the chin—Light-stepping for fear,Feeling the thinIce of the air crack under the weightOf feather-poised earth, and the nearNuzzle of snow, and the wind's spear.
Smoke from fireAnd ice's smokeLunge together,Fight and choke,Plunge and throttle and fight, and allBlue smoke vanishes. Ashes fall.
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