So did she then determine; on that night
Of lonely autumn, when no haggard, white,
Wan, watery moon dreamed on the streaming pane;
But, on the leads, beat the incessant rain,
And the lamenting wind wailed wild among
The trees and turrets, like a phantom throng.
So grew her face severe as skies that take
Suggestions of far storm whose thunders shake
The distant hills with wrath, and cleave with fire
A pine the moaning forest mourns as sire—