And I sank down where I stood, and hid my face against the ground.
I lay still a while: the night-wind swept over the hill and over me, and died moaning in the distance;
the rain fell fast, wetting me afresh to the skin.
Could I but have stiffened to the still frost -- the friendly numbness of death -- it might have pelted on;
I should not have felt it; but my yet living flesh shuddered at its chilling influence. I rose ere long.
The light was yet there, shining dim but constant through the rain.
I tried to walk again: I dragged my exhausted limbs slowly towards it.
It led me aslant over the hill, through a wide bog, which would have been impassable in winter,
and was splashy and shaking even now, in the height of summer.
Here I fell twice; but as often I rose and rallied my faculties.
This light was my forlorn hope: I must gain it.