Chapter XXVII

There is a rushing in the woods,
The autumn-haunted solitudes,
When night comes in with winds that sweep
The wild rain from the hills; and reap
The roaring harvest of the leaves
With unseen scythes Death stalks behind,
And Desolation, fierce and blind,
Heaping the storm’s tumultuous sheaves.
There is a sighing in the woods,
The hills of autumn solitudes,
When on the night, the winds have strewn
With crowding clouds, the stormy moon
Bursts like a herald shouting _Cease!_
Through darkness o’er a battlefield
Of Hell; the splendor of his shield
Inscribed with silence and with peace.