XVIII.

Since time began, the perfect day Has robbed the morrow of its wealth, And squandered, in its lavish sway, The balm and beauty of the stealth,

And left its golden throne in gray. So when the Sunday light declined, A cold wind sprang and shut the flowers Then vagrant voices, undefined,

Grew louder through the evening hours, Till the old chimney howled and whined As if it were a frightened beast, That witnessed from its dizzy post

The loathsome forms and grewsome feast And hideous mirth of ghoul and ghost, As on they crowded from the East. The willow, gathered into sheaves

Of scorpions by spectral arms, Swung to and fro, and whipped the eaves, And filled the house with weird alarms That hissed from all its tortured leaves.

And in the midnight came the rain;— In spiteful needles at the first; But soon on roof and window-pane The slowly gathered fury burst

In floods that came, and came again, And poured their roaring burden out. They swept along the sounding street, Then paused, and then with shriek and shout

Hurtled as if a myriad feet Had joined the dread and deafening rout. But ere the welcome morning broke, The loud wind fell, though gray and chill

The drizzling rain and drifting smoke Drove slowly toward the westward hill, Half hidden in its phantom cloak. And through the mist a clumsy smack,

Deep loaded with her clumsy freight, With shifting boom and frequent tack, Like a huge ghost that wandered late, Reeled by upon her devious track.