Ii

Brown as the agaric that frills dead trees, Or those fantastic fungi of the woods That crowd the dampness--are you kin to these In some mysterious way that still eludes My fancy? you, who haunt the solitudes With hag-like wailings? voice, that seems to freeze Out of the darkness,--like the scent which broods, Rank and rain-sodden, over autumn nooks,-- That, to the mind, might well suggest such looks, Ghastly and gray, as pale clairvoyance sees.