UNUTTERABLE.
Reading edition
There is a sorrow in the wind to-night That haunteth me; she, like a penitent, Heaps on rent hairs the snow's thin ashes white And moans and moans, her swaying body bent. And Superstition gliding softly shakes With wasted hands, that vainly grope and seek, The rustling curtains; of each cranny makes Cold, ghostly lips that wailing fain would speak.