‘Twas warm—at first—like Us— Until there crept upon A Chill—like frost upon a Glass— Till all the scene—be gone.

The Forehead copied Stone— The Fingers grew too cold To ache—and like a Skater’s Brook— The busy eyes—congealed—

It straightened—that was all— It crowded Cold to Cold— It multiplied indifference— As Pride were all it could—