It sweeps them willy nilly like blown dust

 With glory or lust.

 It is the world-ghost, the time-spirit, come

 None knows where from,

 The viewless draughty tide

7

 And wash of being. I hear it yaw and glide,

 And then subside,

 Along these ghostly corridors and halls

 Like faint footfalls;

 The hangings stir in the air;

 And when I start and challenge, “Who goes there?”

 It answers, “Where?”

 The wail and sob and moan of the sea’s dirge,

 Its plangor and surge;

 The awful biting sough

 Of drifted snows along some arctic bluff,

 That veer and luff,

 And have the vacant boding human cry,

 As they go by;—

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