Robert Frost. (№ 345442)

Snow from the sky - with the night race, -
And the past as a field by the river:
As if all buried under the snow,
Only here and there turning yellow spikelets.
The forests around know not of the loss.
People and animals sleeping in burrows.
For the life I cling to forget
Involuntary solitude is embraced.
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So needlessly frighten
The fact that the worlds are immense and mute
And heaven dead. Here, behind the doors,
Space as empty and terrible.