Iii

Although lamps burn along the silent streets, Even when moonlight silvers empty squares The dark holds countless lanes and close retreats; But when the night its sphereless mantle wears The open spaces yawn with gloom abysmal, The sombre mansions loom immense and dismal, The lanes are black as subterranean lairs.

And soon the eye a strange new vision learns: The night remains for it as dark and dense, Yet clearly in this darkness it discerns As in the daylight with its natural sense; Perceives a shade in shadow not obscurely, Pursues a stir of black in blackness surely, Sees spectres also in the gloom intense.

The ear, too, with the silence vast and deep Becomes familiar though unreconciled; Hears breathings as of hidden life asleep, And muffled throbs as of pent passions wild, Far murmurs, speech of pity or derision; but all more dubious than the things of vision, So that it knows not when it is beguiled.

No time abates the first despair and awe, But wonder ceases soon; the weirdest thing Is felt least strange beneath the lawless law Where Death-in-Life is the eternal king; Crushed impotent beneath this reign of terror, Dazed with mysteries of woe and error, The soul is too outworn for wondering.