That gurgles and sticks in the sleeper’s thick breath,
That startles the shivering silence with awe
And dies in the throat like the rattle of death.
There’s a laugh, like the wind’s cracked whistle, that creaks
And squeaks on the worn-out pipes of old age;
And a sigh heaves up from the heart full sad,
For we know what the ominous sounds presage.
There’s the free, wild laugh that bounds as the deer—
As free as the leap of the hart and as wild—
’Tis the laugh that I love with my heart and my soul,