The day had hardly begun to dawn.

The dark dead frost held it in chains of iron.
The sky was dull and leaden, and cindery flakes of snow were thinly falling.

Everywhere life looked utterly dreary and hopeless.

What was there worth living for?
I went out on the road, and the ice in the ruts crackled under my feet like the bones of dead things.

I wandered away from the house, and the keen wind cut me to the bone, for I had not put on plaid or cloak.