Paul Hamilton Hayne (Пол Гамильтон Хейн)
A Phantom in the Clouds
ALL day the blast, with furious ramp and roar, Sweeps the gaunt hill-tops, piles the vapors high, Thro' infinite distance, up the tortured sky-- Till to one nurtured on the ocean-shore, It seems--with eyes half-shut to hill and moor-- The anguished sea waves' multitudinous cry-- It changes! deepening . . . Christ! what agony Doth some doomed spirit on these wild winds outpour! At last a lull! stirred by slow wafts of air! When lo! o'er dismal wastes of stormy wreck, Cloud-wrought, an awful form and face abhorred! Thine, thine, Iscariot! smitten by mad despair, With lurid eyeballs strained, and writhing neck, Round which is coiled a blood-red phantom cord!
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