Escapees from the cold work of living,
Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who standWill sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
Is it almost honey, is it snow?At the white place of the road's vanishing
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Are muffled into silence that refusesto restaurants for Early Bird Specials