  "Jamque vale Soli cum diceret Ambrociotes, In Stygios fertur desiluisse lacus, Morte nihil dignum passus: sed forte Platonis Divini eximum de nece legit opus." —Callimachus. I Now there was wind that night, wild wind, and rain; And frantic thorns, that huddled on the wold, Seemed withered witches met in storm again To keep their Sabbath and to curse and scold, With gnarled, fantastic gestures, lame and old. Deep in a hollow, where some cabin lay, A lamplit window, like an eye of gold, Glared, winked and closed—or was't an Elfin ray, A jack-o'-lanthorn gleam, lost on a wild wood way? II Still I held onward through the ugly night; Breast-deep in thistles, all their ghostly heads Kinked close with wet; through the bedraggled plight Of brakes of bramble, tousled into shreds, And tangled wastes of briars—tumbling beds For winds to toss on.—Once, across a farm, Unsteadily, a lamp towards unseen sheds,— Like the blurred glow of some ungainly worm,— A watery wisp of light crawled trailing through the storm. III Then swallowing blackness of the night; and thin The shrewd rain beat me and the rough limbs whipped Of dwarfed, uneasy beeches. There within Their savage circle battered tombstones tipped Squat lengths to weeds the fighting winds had ripped And chopped to tatters. And I heard before, Rounding a headland, where the gaunt trees dripped,— A shout borne deathward from night's ghastly shore,— Hoarse as a thousand throats the river's sullen roar. IV Shuddering I stopped, for, with my feet so caked With clay, damp-dragging, safer were the graves, Crowding that vista of the wood,—which raked My face with burrs,—than, walking towards the waves, To feel earth slip away; the architraves Of darkness plunge me downward to some pit Of wallow and of water.—Madder knaves Than I have stood thus in a fever-fit Of heart and brain and shuddered from the brink of it. V Wooingly silence whispered to me there Through boughs of dripping darkness sad with rain; Darkness, that met my eyeballs everywhere, Blind-packed and vacant as a madman's brain. And so I stood and heard the dead leaves drain, And through the leaves the haunted wind that hissed; Then suddenly—perhaps it was the strain Snapped in my temples—laughter seemed to twist, With evil, night's dead mouth that bent to mine and kissed. VI Insanity! two leaves that dabbled down, Touched me with drizzle; and that laugh—ah, well, No laugh! an owlet hooting at the frown Night's hag-face tortures while she works her spell. Yet I had sworn, before those kisses fell Like winter on me, black as broken jet, An occult blackness like the Prince of Hell, A woman's hand had brushed my face—and yet, A bat it might have been made mad with wind and wet. VII And stark I stood among the sodden stones, Icy with fever, hearing in each gale Strange footsteps,—while within my soul were moans For strength,—as powerless as I was pale. Then I remembered that within a tale Once I had read—a chronicle of ills Cowled monks had written—how one shall not fail To find, unsought, the Fiend, if so he wills, Cloak, cap, and cock's crook'd plume among the lonely hills. VIII Was that his laugh? and that his vulture hand?— No! no! for in the legend it was said, "Though moonless midnight curse the barren land Sathanas' shadow follows him as red As Hell's red cauldron is."—My terror fled, Remembering this.—How sad a fool was I To dream Hell's wickedness would bow his head By mine, and parley with me, lie for lie, With cunning scrutiny of oblong eye by eye! IX Then, then I felt—her presence! all awake Unto her power that could lift or sink; And her straight eyes controlling, like an ache, My brain that had no mastery to think, Or to perform. And slowly, link on link, She bound me helpless, like an inquisitor, In vasty dungeons of the soul; no wink Of light was there, but darkness, bar on bar, Self-convoluted chaos strangling will's high star. X "I am the mother of uneaseful sleep, The child of night and sister of dim death; Who knoweth me, yea, he shall never weep, Yet bless and ban me in a single breath: Who knoweth me a coward is unneth: And saddest hearts have sought me over glad To find gray comfort where the preacher saith There is no comfort. Melancholy mad, Reach me thy hand and know me if thy heart be sad." XI Thus did she speak. Her voice was like a flame Of burning blackness. Then I felt the throb Of her still hand in mine. And so I came Gladly unto her. Yea, I, too, would rob Time of his triumphs.—Who would groan and sob Beneath his fardels, hearing sad men sigh When here is cure?—for Life, that, like a lob, Rides us to death; for Love, a godless lie; And Toil and Hunger.—Yea, what fool would fear to die? XII Then seemed I wrapped in rolling mists, and, oh, Her arm was round me a |
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