'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.

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

'Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word,' he said.

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