Execution Dock
The wind sings high around a corse
That hangs wi’ a shriveled smock,
Its echoes die in the desolate sky
O’er Execution Dock.
The wind has many an eager hand
To harry the grisly Thing
That whirls and spins with fearful grins
That haunt remembering.
The wild storm-demons of the night
Hurl shuddering breaths of pain
To mingle drear in the winter air
With the clang of the choking chain.
The long lean posts rise high and black
To the cross-beam where It sways,
While down below, in the humble snow,
A woman kneels and prays.