Дублінці
The Dead
Afewlighttapsuponthepanemadehimturntothewindow.Ithadbeguntosnowagain.Hewatchedsleepilytheflakes,silveranddark,fallingobliquelyagainstthelamplight.Thetimehadcomeforhimtosetoutonhisjourneywestward.Yes,thenewspaperswereright:snowwasgeneralalloverIreland.Itwasfallingoneverypartofthedarkcentralplain,onthetreelesshills,fallingsoftlyupontheBogofAllenand,fartherwestward,softlyfallingintothedarkmutinousShannonwaves.Itwasfalling,too,uponeverypartofthelonelychurchyardonthehillwhereMichaelFureylayburied.Itlaythicklydriftedonthecrookedcrossesandheadstones,onthespearsofthelittlegate,onthebarrenthorns.Hissoulswoonedslowlyasheheardthesnowfallingfaintlythroughtheuniverseandfaintlyfalling,likethedescentoftheirlastend,uponallthelivingandthedead.
