158
Midnight.
Thy murdered cry may cleave the ground,
But not unbar His gate."
But not unbar His gate."
Right backward, through the whirling snow—
Back, on the battling wind,
My soul crept slowly to its lair,
The body left behind.
Back, on the battling wind,
My soul crept slowly to its lair,
The body left behind.
The west-wind blows, the west-wind blew,
There are dead men on the sea,
And landsmen dead, in shrouding drifts—
But there is life in me.
There are dead men on the sea,
And landsmen dead, in shrouding drifts—
But there is life in me.
