Night's hag-face tortures while she works her spell.
Yet I had sworn, before those kisses fell
Like winter on me, black as broken jet,
An occult blackness like the Prince of Hell,
A woman's hand had brushed my face—and yet,
A bat it might have been made mad with wind and wet.
VII
And stark I stood among the sodden stones,
Icy with fever, hearing in each gale
Strange footsteps,—while within my soul were moans