Far from the feet of the storm, a pulse like the 
beat of a drum. 
Throbs the wild sound through the storm, and the 
wings of it waken and quiver, 
Only the watcher, unmoved, looks on the face of 
the night ; 
Sees the strong hosts that unite, a fervent implac-
able river 
Foaming from heaven and hell, two armies of 
crimson and white ; 
Flecked is the sky with their blood shed as by 
sabres of light. 
Now they are clutching his arms, the phantoms 
that throng there behind him, 
Foul and distorted, whose sight may not on men 
ever dawn ; 
Now they entice and entreat, now strive with fresh 
fury to bind him, 
Cords that are cut by an angel whose sword is 
unceasingly drawn, 
Glitters, and bids them fall back as if struck by 
the eye of the morn. 
Would he but turn he should see a woman laid 
naked before him, 
74