In creeping fog
of wintry night:
My eyes are clogged.
Billows of blight.

Dull cataracts
veil antique lamps,
gun cotton tracks,
pale wreaths of damp.

Yet though here loom
dun brooding hulks
of cold stone gloom
in misty sulk

the lamps shine forth
and shall not fail
’til dark fades north
and pulls the veil.