A winter night's thought.
145
Some wild-eyed maniac, 'with uncertain steps,
Paces these barren hill-sides. Now, her cry
Comes stifled from the hollows. Now, she shrieks
On the bare rising ground, while high-pitched tones
Make answer, far and shrill, as if the fiends,
Mocking her sense, grew audible to us;
And now—Heaven guard us!—her approaching steps
Sound close beneath the walls, while, each in turn,
The barred doors shake as if some skeleton hand
Rattled against the locks, the windows thrill;
So human grows the moaning voice without,
That, glancing sidelong where the curtains part,
One looks to see some blood-forsaken face
Pressed to the pane. Anon blank silence falls,
And you believe this wandering thing stands still,
Held by a thread of reason; till, far off,
Along the dells there runs an undertone
Of low, melodious laughter, like soft keys
Linked by a flying hand, and forest pines,
Crossed by the harsh chords of the bare, brown boughs,
Prelude their stormy music with a thrill
Like that deep trembling when the organ first
Paces these barren hill-sides. Now, her cry
Comes stifled from the hollows. Now, she shrieks
On the bare rising ground, while high-pitched tones
Make answer, far and shrill, as if the fiends,
Mocking her sense, grew audible to us;
And now—Heaven guard us!—her approaching steps
Sound close beneath the walls, while, each in turn,
The barred doors shake as if some skeleton hand
Rattled against the locks, the windows thrill;
So human grows the moaning voice without,
That, glancing sidelong where the curtains part,
One looks to see some blood-forsaken face
Pressed to the pane. Anon blank silence falls,
And you believe this wandering thing stands still,
Held by a thread of reason; till, far off,
Along the dells there runs an undertone
Of low, melodious laughter, like soft keys
Linked by a flying hand, and forest pines,
Crossed by the harsh chords of the bare, brown boughs,
Prelude their stormy music with a thrill
Like that deep trembling when the organ first
