Other shadows go and come on the ground about me; and then I hear in the air the plunge of beating wings, and cries so fierce that I feel them ransack my head.
* * * * * * Death is not yet dead everywhere.

Some points and surfaces still resist and budge and cry out, doubtless because it is dawn; and once the wind swept away a muffled bugle-call.

There are some who still burn with the invisible fire of fever, in spite of the frozen periods they have crossed.

But the cold is working into them.

The immobility of lifeless things is passing into them, and the wind empties itself as it goes by.
Voices are worn away; looks are soldered to their eyes.