Coleridge.
As if a lark should suddenly drop dead
While the blue air yet trembled with his song,
So snapped at once that music’s golden thread,
Struck by a nameless fear, that leapt along
From heart to heart, and like a shadow sped
With instantaneous shiver through the throng;
So that some glanced behind, as half aware
A hideous shape of dread were standing there.
As when a crowd of pale men gather round,