Classic Poem

The night's unruly, rude, unruly;
It will neither hold nor bind
Every airt has sent a wind;
They grapple as they meet,
And pierce the air with shrieks of pain,
Worrying the timid rain —
The rain with plashy feet.
It is a night of terror, truly,
Out there in the street!

Wild beasts in the chimney growling,
Spirits wailing in the lock;
We cannot hear the ticking clock
Beside us in the room.
Our very hearts have ceased to beat,
And pause, as if they paused to meet
The coming crack of doom. —
Blithe fire, how the poor night is howling
Out there in the gloom!