Oh the long-drawn, horrid night
The stars that taunt, the songs that haunt
All dreams throughout this visage blighted
Wronged and yet, so sweetly righted
Oh the soul-less, chaste to-do
Of comings plain and goings vain
In black-stacked coaches plunging through
The oak and beetled, barkled yew
Oh the monstrous calm that clings
With fingers chill upon my sill
And lingers in the frettish formings,
The lost old bones of many mornings
Crackled on the clew
