Lxii

Down through the dark, indignant trees, On indistinguishable wings Of storm, the wind of evening swings; Before its insane anger flees Distracted leaf and the shattered bough: There is a rushing, as when seas Of thunder beat an iron prow On reefs of wrath and roaring wreck: ’Mid stormy leaves, a hurrying speck Of flickering blackness, driven by, A mad bat whirls along the sky.

Like some sad shadow, in the eve’s Deep melancholy--visible As by some strange and twilight spell-- A gaunt girl stands among the leaves, The night-wind in her dolorous dress: Symbolic of the life that grieves, Of toil that patience makes not less, Her load of faggots fallen there.-- A wilder shadow sweeps the air, And she is gone: Was it the dumb Eidolon of the month to come?