In light of damp and quiet place;

Unblooming laurel, bare as space,

Birch and pine now bleak as bone,

Above their leaf a’ silver-tone—

A place where gray is all he known,

In quiet reign of silver sun—

He hacks the sodden log away

Before the silver break of day,

And silent, starving, there he lay,

And whistles: “all is well.”