 | The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road |  |
WHERE THE GRAY MISTS WHIRL.
At night, in the lonely marsh, 'tis dread,
When the autumn winds crowd 'round,
And the gray mists whirl, like the shrouded dead,
And the reeds make a ghostly sound.
At every step the moisture springs,
And down in the hollows a something sings,
And something mutters and mocks o'erhead,
And a footstep shuffles the ground.
When the autumn winds crowd 'round,
And the gray mists whirl, like the shrouded dead,
And the reeds make a ghostly sound.
At every step the moisture springs,
And down in the hollows a something sings,
And something mutters and mocks o'erhead,
And a footstep shuffles the ground.
221
A boy, who crosses it, hugs his book,
And runs like a hunted thing;
The winds blow hollow from every nook—
What noise is that they bring?
A sound of digging; a phantom spade,
That breaks the turf where a grave is made—
“Ho! ho!” What child would dare to look,
Hearing such laughter ring?
And runs like a hunted thing;
The winds blow hollow from every nook—
What noise is that they bring?
A sound of digging; a phantom spade,
That breaks the turf where a grave is made—
“Ho! ho!” What child would dare to look,
Hearing such laughter ring?
Like evil faces the black stumps stare,
And the pine-wood nods and leers;
What's that? Dead grass? or human hair?—
In the stream that now appears;
And there where it drizzles and drones and dins,
He knows it the demon-woman who spins,
The fiend that turns her wild wheel there,
In the rustling reeds he nears.
And the pine-wood nods and leers;
What's that? Dead grass? or human hair?—
In the stream that now appears;
And there where it drizzles and drones and dins,
He knows it the demon-woman who spins,
The fiend that turns her wild wheel there,
In the rustling reeds he nears.
On, on he hurries; some hurt, some harm
Behind him doffs disguise;
Before his feet black bubbles swarm,
And scraps of music rise;
It is the skeleton fiddler, ho!
Who scrapes a devil's dance below—
That twisted thing, with horrible arm,
Who fiddles the coins from dead men's eyes.
Behind him doffs disguise;
Before his feet black bubbles swarm,
And scraps of music rise;
It is the skeleton fiddler, ho!
Who scrapes a devil's dance below—
That twisted thing, with horrible arm,
Who fiddles the coins from dead men's eyes.
The marshland laughs; and a cry of dole
Grows out of the laugh, like an evil threat;
“Woe! woe!” it wails, “My poor, lost soul!
Why does it wander yet?”
At that he runs like a wounded deer.
Is there no guardian angel near?
He seems to see in the bog a hole
Where his bones lie, moldering wet.
Grows out of the laugh, like an evil threat;
“Woe! woe!” it wails, “My poor, lost soul!
Why does it wander yet?”
222
Is there no guardian angel near?
He seems to see in the bog a hole
Where his bones lie, moldering wet.
At last the earth, firm earth, he feels!
Thank God for the meadowlands!
A lamp-lit window a house reveals—
His home near the marsh that stands.
He gasps and shudders and, standing still,
Looks back at the swamp where it stretches chill,
And shrinking, thinks of the Fear that steals
There with its strangling hands.
Thank God for the meadowlands!
A lamp-lit window a house reveals—
His home near the marsh that stands.
He gasps and shudders and, standing still,
Looks back at the swamp where it stretches chill,
And shrinking, thinks of the Fear that steals
There with its strangling hands.
| The Poet and Nature and The Morning Road | |