Three candles have been burning bright, bright and true as
I sit and I stare into my own personal and intractable oblivion;
however, the tapered red triplets have begun to gutter though
all my windows have been shut against even the smallest draft.
The first, whose wick I set to flame, has grown cold as, so too,
has the warmth that once so lovingly caressed my robust frame.
As a penetrating fog new to a once lively mind has settled in and
dampened my soul, I glance the second scarlet torch; it goes dead.
Anxious -- terrified -- that changes swift and sure are invading the land I
do love, I shield my eyes in fear from the third and last before it, too, bids
adieu to a darkening room . . . yet, I sense it blazes all the more merrily while
vision dims and a stiff cold wind from a broken pane intones my night has come.