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.
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?
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!
By morn, all down the road-sides 'twill lie blown
In beautiful shapes and curves. Against the panes
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?
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!