Now, like five-in-the-morning-driving-silent snow,

Sifting and drifting in the mind's window-crack,

The news, the word, revelation at last, the clue

To ultimate truth, comes. But the heart could break,

And whatever is sacred, whatever prescribed by law,

Whatever we really think, or do, or pretend,

Could all be killed off, better or worse, near or far,

And the day's news never appear to understand.

Do we freeze? The news is all of the joys of sleighing.

We stay at home. The papers sing a song of the road.

The news, the news, is of fright, and flame, and flying,

And not about us, but a nobody named McLeod.