Poems (May)/A winter night's thought
A WINTER NIGHT'S THOUGHT.
Hark to the wind! The snow falls fast to-night. By morn, all down the road-sides 'twill lie blown In beautiful shapes and curves. Against the panes It has lodged heavily. It has lodged heavily.How many suns Since last, at dawn, I heard the gay south-west Come piping up the vales, one little cloud Borne on its bosom as a shepherd bears The youngling of the flock? The youngling of the flock?From out this mad Contending of blent voices, Fancy calls Shapes of a ruder mould. To-night, believe, Some wild-eyed maniac, 'with uncertain steps, Paces these barren hill-sides. Now, her cry Comes stifled from the hollows. Now, she shrieks On the bare rising ground, while high-pitched tones Make answer, far and shrill, as if the fiends, Mocking her sense, grew audible to us; And now—Heaven guard us!—her approaching steps Sound close beneath the walls, while, each in turn, The barred doors shake as if some skeleton hand Rattled against the locks, the windows thrill; So human grows the moaning voice without, That, glancing sidelong where the curtains part, One looks to see some blood-forsaken face Pressed to the pane. Anon blank silence falls,And you believe this wandering thing stands still,Held by a thread of reason; till, far off,Along the dells there runs an undertone Of low, melodious laughter, like soft keys Linked by a flying hand, and forest pines, Crossed by the harsh chords of the bare, brown boughs, Prelude their stormy music with a thrill Like that deep trembling when the organ first Stirs in a vast cathedral. Oh then, roused, Struck by some ambushed thought, she shrieks again Sudden and sharp, this tenant of the night! And hurries through the storm with broken cries, Or, crouching to the walls, finds shelter there, Or, in a sore dismay, upon the earth Dashed headlong, sobs complaining, or in vain Seeks refuge for her madness and her woe In the white crumbling sepulchres she treads!