He sits by the slowly dying fire. The storm is heard with increased

Wild weather. The lash of the sleet

On the gusty casement tapping —

The sound of the storm like a sheet

My soul and senses wrapping.

Wild weather. And how is she,

Now the rush of the rain falls serried

Over the turf and the tree

Of the place where she is buried?

Wild weather. How black and deep

Is the night where the mad winds scurry!—

Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep

That I hear her footsteps hurry?

Hither they come like flowers —

And I see her raiment glisten,

Like the robe of one of the hours

Where the stars to the angels listen.

Before me, behold, how she stands!

With lips high thoughts have weighted,

And testifying hands,

And eyes with glory sated.

I have spoken and I have kneeled;

I have kissed her feet in wonder —

But lo! her lips — they are sealed,

God-sealed, and will not sunder.

Though I sob, “Your stay was long!

You are come,— but your feet were laggard!—

With mansuetude and song

For the soul your death has daggered.”

Never a word replies,

Never to all my weeping —

Only a sound of sighs,

And raiment past me sweeping....

I wake; and a clock strikes three —

And the night and the storm beat serried

Over the turf and the tree

Of the place where she is buried.