And whines when he takes no heed.
The wind goes down and the storm is o’er,
’Tis the hour of midnight, past;
The old trees writhe and bend no more
In the whirl of the rushing blast.
The silent moon with her peaceful light
Looks down on the hills with snow all white,
And the giant shadow of Camel’s Hump,
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump
Afar on the plain are cast.