How shall I shake off the darkness,
The nightmare that feeds on my soul?--
I looked through the windows this morning,
Upon the embankments of snow,
That ridged to the porch of my dwelling,
And covered its floor,
Where a half buried branch of an ever-green rested,
Torn from a discarded Christmas-tree,
Back of the church;--
The terrible wind of the night
Had cut it and carried it thither,
Where in the white, like a wreath it protruded its green,
A wreath for the dead,
Whose soul mid the storm of the night
Had taken its flight.--
O, God, how utterly eerie it seemed
To my mind that had worried alone
Through the vigils of night!
And on that day came the message,
That she was no more.