Always the long push and pull of blood, always the building up, and collapse of lungs, always the mass of flesh to overcome, obese inertia and base momentum, but always too beyond all these there is the continuing earth, which outwears all its thousand forms to one equally beyond the fatigue of fine steel and the water-weariness of stone. This night, whisper-spent and eye-bleared-out in a clock-watched and hour-exhausting hushed soliloquy in sibilance, ends but in earth, which calms all that crackle of the nerves, and submits us to the summer sun ’til we admit, brought to that calm, the snow of flesh, the ice of bones.