Long-last unto the horizon, black and gone;
though mottled with stars, each blazing pure bright,
this winter is cold. Dawn is distant, blurred,
folded at the end of the evening. A horn is heard,
racing, a long ship carrying loads of light,
and in it—you, although away, may sleep
unknowing. Might each snow-snug tree
melt soft and seep your small thoughts of me:
a warmth to which we will both be drawn.