A flickering¹ glimmer² through a window-pane,
A dim red glare through mud bespattered glass,
Cleaving a path between blown walls of sleet
Across uneven³ pavements sunk in slime
To scatter⁴ and then quench⁵ itself in mist.
And struggling, slipping, often rudely hurled
Against the jutting⁶ angle of a wall,
And cursed, and reeled against, and flung aside
By drunken brawlers as they shuffled⁷ past,
A man was groping to what seemed a light.
His eyelids⁸ burnt and quivered with the strain
Of looking, and against his temples beat
The all enshrouding, suffocating⁹ dark.
He stumbled, lurched, and struck against a door
That opened, and a howl of obscene mirth
Grated his senses, wallowing on the floor
Lay men, and dogs and women in the dirt.
He sickened, loathing¹⁰ it, and as he gazed
The candle guttered¹¹, flared¹², and then went out.
Through travail¹³ of ignoble¹⁴ midnight streets
He came at last to shelter in a porch
Where gothic saints and warriors¹⁵ made a shield
To cover him, and tortured gargoyles¹⁶ spat
One long continuous stream of silver rain
That clattered¹⁷ down from myriad¹⁸ roofs and spires
Into a darkness, loud with rushing sound
Of water falling, gurgling as it fell,
But always thickly dark.  Then as he leaned
Unconscious where, the great oak door blew back
And cast him, bruised¹⁹ and dripping, in the church.
His eyes from long sojourning in the night
Were blinded now as by some glorious sun;
He slowly crawled toward the altar steps.
He could not think, for heavy in his ears
An organ boomed majestic²⁰ harmonies;
He only knew that what he saw was light!
He bowed himself before a cross of flame
And shut his eyes in fear lest it should fade.

上一篇：The Promise of the Morning Star 下一篇：March Evening