And ever a kildee cries.
The hovering darkness gathers;
But what is the rose tint there,
That flushes the far horizon
Like a turbulent city's glare?
It gathers and grows and widens,
It swallows the southward sky
And the timid wind, like a hunted deer,
Makes pause to hearken, then leaps in fear
And wails as it hurries by.