Jack Ellyat turned away from the window now, The frosty sleighbell of winter was in his ears, He saw the new year, a child in a buffalo-robe, Dragged in a sleigh whose runners were polished steel Up the long hill of February, into chill light. The child slept in the robe like a reindeer-colt, Nuzzled under the winter. The bright bells rang.

He warmed his hands at the stove and shivered a little Hearing that ice-sweet chime. He was better now, But his blood felt thin when he thought of skating along Over black agate floors in the bonfire light Or beating a girl’s red mittens free of the snow, And he slept badly at times, when his flesh recalled Certain smells and sights that were prison.