PITCH-DARK night shuts in, and the rising gale Is full of the presage of rain, And there comes a withered wail From the wainscot and jarring pane, And a long funeral surge Like a wood-god's dirge, Like the wash of the shoreward tides, from the firs on the crest. The shaking hedges blacken, the last gold flag Lowers from the West; The Advent bell moans wild like a witch hag In the storm's unrest, And the lychgate lantern's candle weaves a shroud, And the unlatched gate shrieks loud. Up fly the smithy sparks, but are baffled from soaring By the pelting scurry, and ever As puff the bellows, a multitude more outpouring Die foiled in the endeavour. And a stranger stands with me here in the glow Chinked through the door, and marks The sparks Perish in whirlpool wind, and if I go To the delta of cypress, where the glebe gate cries, I see him there, with his streaming hair And his eyes Piercing beyond our human firmament, Lit with a burning deathless discontent. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INFERENTIAL by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON OF MONEY by BARNABY (BARNABE) GOOGE CHALSE A KILLEY; TO CHALSE IN HEAVEN by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN THE PALACE OF OMARTES by EDWARD GEORGE EARLE LYTTON BULWER-LYTTON |