Now, dyed with burning carbuncle, a Limbo-litten pane, Within its wall of storm, the West opens to hill and plain, On which the wild geese ink themselves, a far triangled train; And then the shuttering clouds close down--and night is here again.
The year was dying, and the day Was almost dead; The West, beneath a sombre gray, Was sombre red. The gravestones in the ghostly light, 'Mid trees half bare, Seemed phantoms, clothed in glimmering white, That haunted there.
I stood beside the grave of one, Who, here in life, Had wronged my home; who had undone My child and wife. I stood beside his grave until The moon came up-- As if the dark, unhallowed hill Lifted a cup.
No stone was there to mark his grave, No flower to grace-- 'T was meet that weeds alone should wave In such a place. I stood beside his grave until The stars swam high, And all the night was iron still From sky to sky.
What cared I if strange eyes seemed bright Within the gloom! If, evil blue, a wandering light Burnt by each tomb! Or that each crookèd thorn-tree seemed A witch-hag cloaked! Or that the owl above me screamed, The raven croaked!
For I had cursed him when the day Was sullen red; Had cursed him when the West was gray, And day was dead; And now when night made dark the pole, Both soon and late I cursed his body, yea, and soul, With the hate of hate.
Once in my soul I seemed to hear A low voice say,-- _'T were better to forgive,--and fear Thy God,--and pray._ I laughed; and from pale lips of stone On sculptured tombs A mocking laugh replied alone Deep in the glooms.
And then I felt, I felt--as if Some force should seize The body; and its limbs stretch stiff, And, fastening, freeze Down, downward deeper than the knees Into the earth-- While still among the twisted trees That voice made mirth.
And in my Soul was fear, despair,-- Like lost ones feel, When knotted in their pitch-stiff hair, They feel the steel Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet Of hell's slant fire, Then plunge,--as white from head to feet I grew entire.
A voice without me, yet within, As still as frost, Intoned: _Thy sin is thrice a sin, Thrice art thou lost. Behold, how God would punish thee! For this thy crime-- Thy crime of hate and blasphemy-- Through endless time!_