Up to my ear my soul doth run--
Her other door is dark;
There she can see without the sun,
And there she sits to mark.
- hear the dull unheeding wind Mumble o'er heath and wold;
My fancy leaves my brain behind,
And floats into the cold.
Like a forgotten face that lies
One of the speechless crowd,
The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes,
White-folded in her shroud.
O'er leafless woods and cornless farms,
Dead rivers, fireless thorps,
- brood, the heart still throbbing warm In Nature's wintered corpse.