The trees fret fitfully and twist,
  Shutters rattle and carpets heave,
  Slime is the dust of yestereve,
    And in the streaming mist
Fishes might seem to fin a passage if they list.
    But to his feet,
    Drawing nigh and nigher
    A hidden seat,
    The fog is sweet
    And the wind a lyre.
  A vacant sameness grays the sky,
  A moisture gathers on each knop
  Of the bramble, rounding to a drop,
    That greets the goer-by
With the cold listless lustre of a dead man’s eye.
    But to her sight,
    Drawing nigh and nigher
    Its deep delight,
    The fog is bright
    And the wind a lyre.
