A WIND-STORM AT NIGHT.
O sudden blast, that through night's silence black
Sweep'st past my windows,
Coming and going with invisible track—
As death or sin does—
Why scare me, lying sick, and—save thine own—
Hearing no voices?
Why mingle with a helpless human moan
Thy fierce rejoices?
Thou shouldst come gently, as good angels come
To souls departing;
Floating among the shadows of the room
With eyes light-darting:
Bringing faint airs of balm, and tones that rouse
Thoughts of a Far Land;
Binding so softly upon aching brows
Death's poppy-garland.
O fearful blast, I shudder at thy sound;
Like some poor mortal
Who hears the Three that mark life's doomèd bound
Sit at his portal.
Thy wings seem laden with sad, shrieking souls,
Borne, all unwilling,
From earth's known plains, to the unknown gulf that rolls,
Evermore filling.
Fierce wind! will the Death-Angel come like thee,
And swiftly bear me—
Whither?—What mysteries may unfold to me?
What horrors scare me?
Shall I go wandering on through silent space,
Lonely—still lonely?
Or seek through myriad spirit-ranks one face,
And miss that only?