Chapter VII

I know that a tyrannous rod is his,
When he maketh the forest bow;
But worse, far worse are his tyrannies,
For he tameth the spirit now!
Without—without,
Oh hear him shout,
October is going away!
’Tis the night—the night
Of the grave’s delight,
And the warlocks are at their play!
Ye think that without,
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they—it is they!