Iii

Where was I last Friday night?-- Within the Forest of dark Dreams Seeing the mists rise left and right, Like the leathery fog that heaves and steams From the rolling horror of Hell's red streams: While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree, And danced alone with the last mad leaf-- Or was it the wind?... kept whispering me, "Come! bury it here with its own black grief, And its heart of fire that naught can save!"-- And there in the darkness I seemed to see My own self digging my soul a grave.