Paradise to receive some spirit well-nigh spent. ‘Hark,’ said he, ‘how the wind moans and the rain beats upon the window!’ But it was the cry of the passing ghosts and their falling tears as their black sins fought and kept them from heaven.
But one who was a singer took his harp and sang, for he understood. Here is his song:
They say it is the wind in midnight skies,
Loud shrieking past the window, that doth make
Each casement shudder with its storm of cries,
And the barred door with pushing shoulder shake.
Ah no, ah no, it is the souls pass by,
Their lot to run from earth to God's high place,
Pursued by each black sin that death let fly
From their sad flesh, to break them in the chase.
They say it is the rain from leaf to leaf
Doth slip and roll into the thirsting ground,
That where the corn is trampled sheaf by sheaf
The heavy sorrow of the storm is found.
