Beneath a forest’s darkling plume—
In that communion of the heart
Which but the wretched can assume.
They seemed in earnest converse there,
As if with words to quench despair;
And one, along whose features grew,
A withering, deathly, demon-hue,
Wore that high, dread, defying look
Which but the Lost can dare to brook;
The other milder seemed—but he