 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
136
SHADOWS AND VOICES AT TWILIGHT.
The fire-light flickers—closed are the shutters—
The fountain and the rain
Plash in the wells, and gush from the gutters
With a dull monotonous pain.
The fountain and the rain
Plash in the wells, and gush from the gutters
With a dull monotonous pain.
The fire-light flickers—on wall and ceiling
Wild uncouth shadows dance,
To the corners dark so swiftly stealing,
When the flame darts up with a glance.
Wild uncouth shadows dance,
To the corners dark so swiftly stealing,
When the flame darts up with a glance.
I know there's a great black shadow mowing
And mocking above me there,
As over the fire my figure bowing
Into its coals I stare.
And mocking above me there,
As over the fire my figure bowing
Into its coals I stare.
137
The sparks in the soot are toiling and moiling
Like a crowd of burning flies,—
From its hot pores driven all hissing and boiling
The shrill sap screaming dies.
Like a crowd of burning flies,—
From its hot pores driven all hissing and boiling
The shrill sap screaming dies.
What voice is that at the window wailing?
That wails in the sobbing rain—
That wails and moans with a voice, now failing,
Now rising with screams of pain.
That wails in the sobbing rain—
That wails and moans with a voice, now failing,
Now rising with screams of pain.
Is it a friend that shakes and rattles
And beats at the panes so thin?
Or some lost soul with the Fiend that battles,
Imploring to enter in?
And beats at the panes so thin?
Or some lost soul with the Fiend that battles,
Imploring to enter in?
Some little child that is freezing and dying,
And longs for the glowing fire,
That pats with its little cold hands—crying
With passionate desire?
And longs for the glowing fire,
That pats with its little cold hands—crying
With passionate desire?
138
Is it some spirit that ere he quitteth
This earth, is pausing there,
Some dear friend's flitting spirit that sitteth
On my sill in the bleak night air?
This earth, is pausing there,
Some dear friend's flitting spirit that sitteth
On my sill in the bleak night air?
No! 'tis the wind alone that clatters
Against the shuddering pane,
And some tree-branch on the blind that patters
With the gusts of the windy rain.
Against the shuddering pane,
And some tree-branch on the blind that patters
With the gusts of the windy rain.
The world is weird; in these twilight regions
Are shapes of fear and fright—
I shrink from their nightmares that gather in legions,—
Bring in the light!
Are shapes of fear and fright—
I shrink from their nightmares that gather in legions,—
Bring in the light!
| Poems by William W. Story | |