The witch-vine signals, and the rainy night
Enters my heart; puts out its wan rush light,
Like a chill blast of fore-writ doom and tears,
Extinguishing the meaning of my years.
Then come the spectral tapping on the pane,
Counting the unmarked graves of things as vain
As that bright-bound, dumb company of books
And worthless treasure of my chamber nooks.
Let be, O witch-vine fingers! I have grown
So kindly used to living all alone.
Let be, O furtive night! And I would fain
Be unremarked of thee, O brooding rain!
Be unreminded, when the tendril taps
Keep count of years—of the remorseless lapse
Of time ... for I must tend my fire yet,
And hear the storm, and see the window wet,
Thinking of some strange hour of frozen peace,
When the reproach of wind and rain shall cease
Thinking what Guest sits by ... when fires wane,
And the witch-vine lies withered on the pane.
Third Picture
FANTASY
Down the black mountain
The fairies come, I ween;
Tarrying hither,
Hurrying thither,
Grey-bright,
Phantom flight,
Winging by the glass.
Lo! spreads a green,
Leaf-lattice screen.
In the stark valley
The fairies riches feign;
They fling, they sprinkle
Tiny gems a-twinkle;
Water gems,
Flower gems
Sparkle in the grass.
Lo! in the lane,
Blood-root again.
On the dull houses
The fairies come to dance;
They masque, they chatter,
Elfin goblets shatter,
“Health to Spring,”
So they sing,
Laughing in the eaves.
Lo! like a lance,
See sunlight glance!
From a poor spirit
The fairies take the fears;
They soothe, they flatter,
They sing, “What matter?”
“Oh! Life is good to try!”
Lo! through my tears,
All the sky clears.