III.
Up to my ear my soul doth run—
Her other door is dark;
There she can see without the sun,
And there she sits to mark.
I hear the dull unheeding wind
Mumble o'er heath and wold;
My fancy leaves my brain behind,
And floats into the cold.
Like a forgotten face that lies
One of the speechless crowd,
The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes,
White-folded in her shroud.
O'er leafless woods and cornless farms,
Dead rivers, fireless thorps,
I brood, the heart still throbbing warm
In Nature's wintered corpse.