THE HUT BY THE BLACK SWAMP by Henry Kendall

Now comes the fierce north-easter, bound 
   About with clouds and racks of rain, 
And dry, dead leaves go whirling round 
   In rings of dust, and sigh like pain 
      Across the plain. 


Now twilight, with a shadowy hand 
   Of wild dominionship, doth keep 
Strong hold of hollow straits of land, 
   And watery sounds are loud and deep 
      By gap and steep. 


Keen, fitful gusts, that fly before 
   The wings of storm when day hath shut 
Its eyes on mountains, flaw by flaw, 
   Fleet down by whistling box-tree butt, 
      Against the hut. 


And, ringed and girt with lurid pomp, 
   Far eastern cliffs start up, and take 
Thick steaming vapours from a swamp 
   That lieth like a great blind lake, 
      Of face opaque. 


The moss that, like a tender grief, 
   About an English ruin clings -- 
What time the wan autumnal leaf 
   Faints, after many wanderings 
      On windy wings -- 


That gracious growth, whose quiet green 
   Is as a love in days austere, 
Was never seen -- hath never been -- 
   On slab or roof, deserted here 
      For many a year. 


Nor comes the bird whose speech is song -- 
   Whose songs are silvery syllables 
That unto glimmering woods belong, 
   And deep, meandering mountain dells 
      By yellow wells. 


But rather here the wild-dog halts, 
   And lifts the paw, and looks, and howls; 
And here, in ruined forest vaults, 
   Abide dim, dark, death-featured owls, 
      Like monks in cowls. 


Across this hut the nettle runs, 
   And livid adders make their lair 
In corners dank from lack of suns, 
   And out of foetid furrows stare 
      The growths that scare. 


Here Summer's grasp of fire is laid 
   On bark and slabs that rot, and breed 
Squat ugly things of deadly shade, 
   The scorpion, and the spiteful seed 
      Of centipede. 


Unhallowed thunders, harsh and dry, 
   And flaming noontides, mute with heat, 
Beneath the breathless, brazen sky, 
   Upon these rifted rafters beat 
      With torrid feet. 


And night by night the fitful gale 
   Doth carry past the bittern's boom, 
The dingo's yell, the plover's wail, 
   While lumbering shadows start, and loom, 
      And hiss through gloom. 


No sign of grace -- no hope of green, 
   Cool-blossomed seasons marks the spot; 
But chained to iron doom, I ween, 
   'Tis left, like skeleton, to rot 
      Where ruth is not. 


For on this hut hath murder writ, 
   With bloody fingers, hellish things; 
And God will never visit it 
   With flower or leaf of sweet-faced Springs, 
      Or gentle wings.