White fog around, soft snow beneath the tread,
All sunless, windless, tranced, the morning lay;
All noiseless, trackless, new, the well-known way.
The silence weighed upon the sense; in dread,
“Alone, I am alone,” I shuddering said,
“And wander in a region where no ray
Has ever shone, and as on earth's first day
Or last, my kind are not yet born or dead.”
Yet not afar, meanwhile, there faltered feet
Like mine, through that wide mystery of the snow,
Nor could the old accustomed paths divine;
And even as mine, unheard spake voices low,
And hearts were near, that as my own heart beat,
Warm hands, and faces fashioned like to mine.