"But if he stood and watched the frigid wind | Tousling the clouds, lay on the fusty bed | Telling himself that this was home, and grinned, | And shivered, without shaking off the dread | That how we live measures our own nature, | And at his age having no more to show | Than one hired box"]

I seem to see my shadow stretch in yellowing light, and all my breath departs without even one deliquescent cloud.

No, the air in this room is warm and stale. No wind has disturbed it for decades. No other face has stained the dust on the windows.

A vast abrupt turns my stomach.