—13—
Alas! I said,—the world is in the wrong.—
But the same quenchless fever of unrest
That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng
Thrilled me, and I awoke. . . and was the same
Bewildered insect plunging for the flame
That burns, and must burn somehow for the best.
THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.
Through broken walls and gray
The winds blow bleak and shrill;
They are all gone away.
Nor is there one to-day
To speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.
Why is it then we stray
Around that sunken sill?
They are all gone away,
And our poor fancy-play
For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.
There is ruin and decay
In the House on the Hill:
They are all gone away,
There is nothing more to say.
THE WILDERNESS
Come away! come away! there's a frost along the marshes,
And a frozen wind that skims the shoal where it shakes the dead black water;
There's a moan across the lowland and a wailing through the woodland
