MIDNIGHT.

From where I sit, I see the stars,

And down the chilly floor

The moon between the frozen bars

Is glimmering dim and hoar.

Without in many a peakèd mound

The glinting snowdrifts lie;

There is no voice or living sound;

The embers slowly die.

Yet some wild thing is in mine ear;

I hold my breath and hark;

Out of the depth I seem to hear

A crying in the dark:

No sound of man or wife or child,

No sound of beast that groans,

Or of the wind that whistles wild,

Or of the tree that moans:

I know not what it is I hear;

I bend my head and hark:

I cannot drive it from mine ear,

That crying in the dark.