Behold him, single on the Heath,
Solitary Howler, his voice he lends,
Flying, crying, singing by himself,
To his invisible friends!
Alone, he dances, frantic in the rain,
And cries a melancholy strain;
O listen! For upon that mound,
He pours forth overflowing sound.
No nuncle did ever chaunt,
Such blind rage at scene and the storm,
Yet no one is near to hear his haunt,
The voice, it seems to mourn;
A voice so chilling ne’er was heard,
Yet barely can I hear a word,
“Blow, winds, crack, cheeks, spit, fire! Spout, rain!”
O, are none here to heal his pain?
Can no one hear just what he sings?
What’s brought the spirit so low?
Per’aps it’s unhappy, far-off things,
Pains from long ago;
But lo! calls “daughters” in his lowly lay,
I see none such today.
Blow, winds, crack, cheeks, spit, fire! Spout, rain!”
No daughters here to heal his pain.