Execution Dock

The wind sings high around a corse That hangs wi’ a shriveled smock, Its echoes die in the desolate sky O’er Execution Dock. The wind has many an eager hand To harry the grisly Thing That whirls and spins with fearful grins That haunt remembering. The wild storm-demons of the night Hurl shuddering breaths of pain To mingle drear in the winter air With the clang of the choking chain. The long lean posts rise high and black To the cross-beam where It sways, While down below, in the humble snow, A woman kneels and prays.