I

OH, do I hear the night-raped wind Who screams in travail, do I hear The blunt ropes of the gibbet grind, The hanged man’s writhing sigh so drear? Oh, can it be some cricket’s song Vibrating shrill amongst the weeds And sterile moss? throughout the long Finned languid hours when summer bleeds Outstretched and pallid on a bier. Oh, can it be some spot-swift fly Who winds his horn round each deaf ear? Some beetle plucking stealthily A morsel of corrupting flesh, A trailing wisp, a bleeding hair, Until his spirit, fed and fresh, Will bid him frisk upon the air? Oh, can it be some spider squat Who sings and sows at half an ell Of satin, for a new cravat To deck his strangled throat in Hell? It is the clock which tinkles down The hour to the crumbling town. It is a hanged man’s carcass spun With crimson by the setting sun.