There stood the concave, vast, unfriendly night,
And over him the scroll of stars unfurled.
Then wailing like a child he rose upright
Heart-sick with desolation. The new blight
Of loss had nipt him sore, and sad self-pity
Thinking of her—then thinking of the City.
8
For, in each moment’s thought, the deeds of Bran,
The burning and the blood and his own shame,
Would tease him into madness till he ran