UNUTTERABLE.

There is a sorrow in the wind to-night

That haunteth me; she, like a penitent,

Heaps on rent hairs the snow's thin ashes white

And moans and moans, her swaying body bent.

And Superstition gliding softly shakes

With wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek,

The rustling curtains; of each cranny makes

Cold, ghostly lips that wailing fain would speak.