swinging in its solitary hut. 
  
 And now one by one the robber beasts arrive. 
 They sit about the table, deal the cards  
 and play Death’s game.  
         The solitary light swings.  
 Each round the robbers wound the light. 
 Tearless, brooding, remembering,  
 they play. The Moon  
 is closeted. Ho!  
 the boisterous cook exclaims  
 frightening the robbers  
         —I’ve cooked up a fat face here  
         for midnight supper.