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Poems about Dark
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Am I not he that hath made thee and begotten thee,
I, God, the spirit of man?
Across thy face a glimmer passes—
Wrought by what far and hidden flame?
‘WHAT was the hardest hour’, you ask,
‘Ever I had at sea?’
So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair
Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare
No one bathes in the pool, The deep pool by the mill . . .
O Wind, like raging Lear forlorn,
Against the sharp opposing thorne
O none may share the sorrow, And none may break the spell,
Her decks are drowned in sea-wrack, her guns are sunk in sand,
Where she lies in the still water, hard by the Irish strand.
When the moths are flitting, and the fields are still,
'Ware the darkling shadows on the haunted hill,
"Witch of Mull, the strangers here
Come to wreak their vengeance drear:
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