The Inn of Dreams/The Storm
For works with similar titles, see Storm.
The Storm
What do they hunt to-night, the hounds of the wind? I think it is joy they hunt, for joy has fled from my heart. I only remember the hours when I sorrowed or sinned, I only remember the hours when I stood apart Lonely and tired, in difficult dreams entranced, And I forget the days when I loved, and laughed, and danced.
Grey hounds of the wind, I hear your wistful cry, The cry of unsatisfied hearts hungry for happiness; The house is full of whispering ghosts as you hurry by, And my soul is heavy and dark with a great distress, For heaven is far away, and hope is dead;And the night is a tomb of tears, and despair, and dread.
O hunt no more wild hounds of the wind and rain, For my soul is afraid of the sound of your hurrying feet, And surely under the stars a beautiful joy is slain? Fly! black wings of sorrow . . . wet wings of the night that beat At the shuttered windows, swiftly fly away, Before God stoops to gather the golden flower of day.