She must be mate of his; but how?
And, dreaming of a thousand ways

Her hands would work, her feet would tread,
She thought to match him as a man!
His books should be her daily bread;
She would run swiftly where he ran,
And follow closely where he led.



XVIII.

Since time began, the perfect day
Has robbed the morrow of its wealth,
And squandered, in its lavish sway,
The balm and beauty of the stealth,
And left its golden throne in gray.

So when the Sunday light declined,
A cold wind sprang and shut the flowers
Then vagrant voices, undefined,
Grew louder through the evening hours,
Till the old chimney howled and whined

As if it were a frightened beast,
That witnessed from its dizzy post
The loathsome forms and grewsome feast
And hideous mirth of ghoul and ghost,
As on they crowded from the East.