Vii

All night the rain-gusts shook the leaves Around my window; and the blast Rumbled the flickering flue, and fast The storm streamed from the dripping eaves. As if--'neath skies gone mad with fear-- The witches' Sabboth galloped past, The forests leapt like startled deer.

All night I heard the sweeping sleet; And when the morning came, as slow As wan affliction, with the woe Of all the world dragged at her feet, No spear of purple shattered through The dark gray of the east; no bow Of gold shot arrows swift and blue.

But rain, that whipped the windows; filled The spouts with rushings; and around The garden stamped, and sowed the ground With limbs and leaves; the wood-pool filled With overgurgling.--Bleak and cold The fields looked, where the footpath wound Through teasel and bur-marigold.

Yet there's a kindness in such days Of gloom, that doth console regret With sympathy of tears, which wet Old eyes that watch the back-log blaze.-- A kindness, alien to the deep Glad blue of sunny days that let No thought in of the lives that weep.