And storm-clouds gather in the threatening west;
The lowing cattle seek a friendly shelter;
The bird hies to her nest;
The thunder crashes; wilder grows the tempest,
And darkness settles o'er the fearful din;
Come, shut the door, and gather round the hearthstone:
Are all the children in?
Are all the children in? The night is falling,
When gilded sin doth walk about the streets.
O, “at the last it biteth like a serpent”!