The trees fret fitfully and twist, Shutters rattle and carpets heave, Slime is the dust of yestereve, And in the streaming mist Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list. But to his feet, Drawing nigh and nigher A hidden seat, The fog is sweet And the wind a lyre. A vacant sameness grays the sky, A moisture gathers on each knop Of the bramble, rounding to a drop, That greets the goer-by With the cold listless lustre of a dead man’s eye. But to her sight, Drawing nigh and nigher Its deep delight, The fog is bright And the wind a lyre.
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