Mar 10, 2018
DISCHMATAL BY NIGHT
THERE is a dirge of cataracts that fall Far far away up in the shadowed glen. A faint wind moans among the pines, and then Shudders away to silence. The deep pall Of snow lies chill and voiceless over all. And through the mist the moon peers down as when By the veiled light of lanthorns speechless men Gaze on some sheeted corpse's funeral.
Savagely mute; remotely merciless, There is a Presence here that awes and chills, A Stillness aged and inviolate. It is the Spirit of the wilderness, The everlasting Silence of the hills Who shroud themselves in Solitude: and wait.
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