The Inn of Dreams/The Storm

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For works with similar titles, see Storm.
367849The Inn of Dreams — The StormOlive Custance

The Storm

What do they hunt to-night, the hounds of the wind?
I think it is joy they hunt, for joy has fled from my heart.
I only remember the hours when I sorrowed or sinned,
I only remember the hours when I stood apart
Lonely and tired, in difficult dreams entranced,
And I forget the days when I loved, and laughed, and danced.

Grey hounds of the wind, I hear your wistful cry,

The cry of unsatisfied hearts hungry for happiness;
The house is full of whispering ghosts as you hurry by,
And my soul is heavy and dark with a great distress,
For heaven is far away, and hope is dead;
And the night is a tomb of tears, and despair, and dread.

O hunt no more wild hounds of the wind and rain,
For my soul is afraid of the sound of your hurrying feet,
And surely under the stars a beautiful joy is slain?

Fly! black wings of sorrow . . . wet wings of the night that beat
At the shuttered windows, swiftly fly away,
Before God stoops to gather the golden flower of day.