 | The bells |  |
73
THE NIGHT WIND.
I feel like weeping when the dismal Wind
Talks to the chimney of an Autumn night—
So strangely talks with meaning undefined—
Or scolds the forest till it shrinks in fright,
And with its lips of leaves, all terror white,
Begs of the breeze to treat it less unkind.
Talks to the chimney of an Autumn night—
So strangely talks with meaning undefined—
Or scolds the forest till it shrinks in fright,
And with its lips of leaves, all terror white,
Begs of the breeze to treat it less unkind.
To-night, before the supper lamps were lit,
The poor wind whistled such a doleful tune
My eyelids swelled like rain-fed clouds in June;
I drew my arm-chair near the hearth, to sit
And form the embers into figures quaint;
I fancied Vikings, bridges, castles drear;
But ah! that Wind, now growing loud, now faint,
Hung like a guilty conscience on my ear.
The poor wind whistled such a doleful tune
My eyelids swelled like rain-fed clouds in June;
I drew my arm-chair near the hearth, to sit
And form the embers into figures quaint;
I fancied Vikings, bridges, castles drear;
But ah! that Wind, now growing loud, now faint,
Hung like a guilty conscience on my ear.
| The bells | |