snow was general all over Cecil. It was falling on every part of
the dark central river, on the treeless marsh, falling softly upon the Gut of Abner and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark
mutinous Chesapeake waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the
lonely churchyard on the hill where Himself lay buried. It lay
thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of
the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he
heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling,
like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
(my apologies to Mr. Joyce)
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