Against The Pane The Darkness, Wet And Cold, Pressed A Wild Face And Raised A Ragged Arm Of Cloud, Clothed On With Thunder And Alarm And Terrible With Elemental Gold. Above The Fisher'S Hut, Beyond The Wold, The Wind, A Salem Witch, Rushed Shrieking Harm, And Swept Her Mad Broom Over Every Farm To Devil-Revels In Some Forest Old. Hell And Its-Hags, It Seemed, Held Court Again On Every Rock, Trailing A Tattered Gown Of Surf, And Whirling, Screaming, To The Sea Elf-Locks, Fantastic, Of Dishevelled Rain; While In Their Midst Death Hobbled Up And Down Monstrous And Black, With Diabolic Glee.