The trees fret fitfully and twist,
       &nbsp Shutters rattle and carpets heave,
       &nbsp Slime is the dust of yestereve,
       &nbsp       &nbsp And in the streaming mist
Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.

       &nbsp       &nbsp But to his feet,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Drawing nigh and nigher
       &nbsp       &nbsp A hidden seat,
       &nbsp       &nbsp The fog is sweet
       &nbsp       &nbsp And the wind a lyre.

       &nbsp A vacant sameness grays the sky,
       &nbsp A moisture gathers on each knop
       &nbsp Of the bramble, rounding to a drop,
       &nbsp       &nbsp That greets the goer-by
With the cold listless lustre of a dead man’s eye.

       &nbsp       &nbsp But to her sight,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Drawing nigh and nigher
       &nbsp        &nbsp Its deep delight,
       &nbsp       &nbsp The fog is bright
       &nbsp       &nbsp And the wind a lyre.