To journey where she trembled so?
And do they turn and turn in fright,
Those little feet, in so much night?
The light above the poet’s head
Streamed on the page and on the cloth,
And twice and thrice there buffeted
On the black pane a white-winged moth:
‘Twas Annie’s soul that beat outside,
And “Open, open, open!” cried:
“I could not find the way to God;