The Trees Fret Fitfully And Twist, Shutters Rattle And Carpets Heave, Slime Is The Dust Of Yestereve, And In The Streaming Mist Fishes Might Seem To Fin A Passage If They List. But To His Feet, Drawing Nigh And Nigher A Hidden Seat, The Fog Is Sweet And The Wind A Lyre. A Vacant Sameness Grays The Sky, A Moisture Gathers On Each Knop Of The Bramble, Rounding To A Drop, That Greets The Goer-By With The Cold Listless Lustre Of A Dead Man'S Eye. But To Her Sight, Drawing Nigh And Nigher Its Deep Delight, The Fog Is Bright And The Wind A Lyre.