'What is the world, O soldiers? It is I, I, this incessant snow, This northern sky.

Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him He lags the long bright morning through, Ever so tired of nothing to do.

'Is anybody there?' said the Traveler, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence chomped the grasses Of the forest's ferny floor.

'A bumpity ride in a wagon of hay'