Iii

Hark, how the wind outswells, Tempting the wood’s dark heart till he rebels, And, shaking his black hair, Lifts up a cry of passion and despair! The groaning branches chafe Till scarce the small, hushed singing-birds are safe, Tossed rocking in the nest, Like gentle memories in a stormy breast. A shudder, as good angels passed in flight, Thrills over field and wave.

What now remains, what now remains but night? Night lawless, while the moon is in her grave!