  Over the moorland, over the moor,
Sibilant sounds the rain-storm's sneer,
Sneeringly sounds, yet with a lure
Like the lure of the mermaids of the mere,
Calling the fishermen into their snare—
Through watery veils, my dim eyes peer,
Where can a light or a path be, where?
Lost on the moor, the moorland drear—
Lost, and the storm-lion's out of his lair,
Raging rampant with mighty roar;
And the glistening lightning flashes its glare;
And the torrents descend with a wind-driven pour.
Only the lightning to show by its fire
The tears of Heaven flooding Earth's floor;
And, above the sound of the storm-lion's ire,
Shriek the rain-sheets over the tor,
Shriek in a quavering, tuneless choir.
What's that in the distance shining afar?
See it flickering higher and higher,
Light in a broadening, lengthening bar—
Who is abroad at this lonely hour?
Or is it a cottage high on the scar?
Or does it shine in My Lady's tower
To guide her Lord from lands afar?
Nearer and nearer, I haste—Oh, for power
To reach that light—Oh, to be sure,
My Lady would welcome me in her bower—
I fall; I sink; it was the marsh's lure—
December 26, 1911. |
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