VI

The wind hath risen, the wind hath risen. Something is colder and truer.

Something of life and its mystery creeps into the room.

Mother, stop the window chinks, make the door fast and sure.

We never know what horror it is that out of the Night may come.

We know not whom we await. It may be worse than the dark.

It may be shapeless unto our thought and dread as God if he be...

Mother, new sounds are creeping like snakes through the darkness. Hark!

Is it the wind you fear? Is it the sea you remark?

Mother, make me to sleep at once, ere I may hear or see.