"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched
sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set
out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling
on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther
westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the
lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey 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."