Unutterable

There is a sorrow in the wind to-night That haunteth me; she, like a penitent, Heaps on rent hair the snow’s thin ashes white, And moans and moans, her swaying body bent.

And Superstition, gliding softly, shakes With wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek, The rustling curtains; of each cranny makes Wild, ghostly lips that, wailing, fain would speak.