Ii

Still I held onward through the ugly night; Breast-deep in thistles, all their ghostly heads Kinked close with wet; through the bedraggled plight Of brakes of bramble, tousled into shreds, And tangled wastes of briars--tumbling beds For winds to toss on.--Once, across a farm, Unsteadily, a lamp towards unseen sheds,-- Like the blurred glow of some ungainly worm,-- A watery wisp of light crawled trailing through the storm.