Songs of the Spirit

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