Allan Cunningham
254
A CHILD'S WINTER EVENING
The smothering dark engulfs relentlessly
With nightmare tread approaching steadfastly;
All horrors thicken as the daylight fails
And, is it wind, or some lost ghost that wails?
Tongue cannot tell the stories that beset,
With livid pictures blackness dense as jet,
Or that wild questioning—whence we are; and why;