The clock has stopped; and the wind's dropped:
A candle burns with moon-gold flame.
Blank silence whispers at my ears,
'_Though I've been dead these coffin'd years,
'You'll never choke my shame._'
'_Dip your quill in clotted ink:_
'_Write; I'll quicken you to think_
'_In my old fiery alphabet._'
The candle-flame upon its wick
Staggers; the time-piece starts to tick;
And down the dark the wind blows wet.
* * * * * * *
Good angels, help me to forget.