A dark, tempestuous night; the stars shut in
With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot
The firmament; and where the moon has been
An hour agone seems like the darkest spot.
The weird wind--furious at its demon game--
Rattles one's fancy like a window-frame.
A care-worn face peers out into the dark,
And childish faces--frightened at the gloom--
Grow awed and vacant as they turn to mark
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem