MIDNIGHT.

From where I sit, I see the stars, And down the chilly floor The moon between the frozen bars Is glimmering dim and hoar.

Without in many a peakèd mound The glinting snowdrifts lie; There is no voice or living sound; The embers slowly die.

Yet some wild thing is in mine ear; I hold my breath and hark; Out of the depth I seem to hear A crying in the dark:

No sound of man or wife or child, No sound of beast that groans, Or of the wind that whistles wild, Or of the tree that moans:

I know not what it is I hear; I bend my head and hark: I cannot drive it from mine ear, That crying in the dark.