Classic Poem

The stormy west was scowling,
And wolves, far off, were howling.
The starv'd she-fox, from Ravensly,
Yelp'd o'er oak-waving Denaby.
Deep in the wath of Addersmarsh,
The bittern strain'd her trumpet harsh.
The mast-fed boar had crunch'd his fill.
Beneath the blast, increasing still,
The ash-twigs snapp'd, aloft in air:
Their fall disturb'd the drowsy bear,
And every falling leaf the hare.
" The coming night is glooming, "
She said; " the night is coming;
The direness of the bittern's booming
Foretels a night of moan and groan —
Here to be pass'd by one so lone!
The night is coming. "
What saw she westward of the grove?
What look'd she north to see?
A boat approaching? Did it move?
It mov'd, it pass'd the wizard's tree;
" He comes! " she said, " 'tis he. "