Here in the red embers
I dream old Decembers,
Until the low moan of the blast,
Like a voice out of Ghost-land,
Or memory’s lost-land,
Seems to conjure up wraiths from the past.
But Campbell does not continue the strict painting of the objective picture. He introduces something ‘for the inward soul,’ as he does, in the concluding stanza:—
Then into the room
Through the firelight and gloom,
Some one steals,—let the night wind grow bleak,