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 his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and , further westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling to, 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 sphere 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. --- James Joyce The Dead玻璃上几下轻轻的响声吸引他把脸转向窗户，又开始下雪了。
他睡眼迷蒙地望着雪花，银色的、暗暗的雪花，迎着灯光在斜斜地飘落该是他动身去西方旅行的时候了是的，报纸说得对：整个爱尔兰都在下雪它落在阴郁的中部平原的每一片土地上，落在光秃秃的小山上，轻轻地落进艾伦沼泽，再往西，又轻轻地落在香农河黑沉沉的、奔腾澎湃的浪潮中它也落在山坡上安葬着迈克尔富里的孤独的教堂墓地的每一块泥土上它纷纷飘落，厚厚积压在歪歪斜斜的十字架上和墓石上，落在一扇扇小墓门的尖顶上，落在荒芜的荆棘丛中他的灵魂缓缓地昏睡了，当他听着雪花微微地穿过宇宙在飘落，微微地，如同他们最终的结局那样，飘落到所有的生者和死者身上。
