FLIES AND FLY-DRESSING 217 



weir, to conquer in the mead where king- 

 cups grow. 



Oh, damn ! Let's close the little doors 

 and turn the key, and with its click we 

 pass from what is sane and real, as thought 

 moves on to actuality, paling the candles' 

 gleam, dimming the books along the wall, 

 veiling the firelight cast across the floor, 

 where little pattering feet were wont to 

 tread, leaving the deep seats empty to the 

 silence there. 



The wind is rising, with sudden gusts 

 that beat against the pane. It moans 

 and rattles at the fastenings. It pauses, 

 gathering force, then flings the French- 

 windows wide, bringing with it the sleet 

 and the rain and the sounds in the night. 

 For in the roar of the wind there is a 

 muffled and constant chord, jarring, alien, 

 yet ever moving through it. Again the 

 wind pauses, holding its breath, giving 

 place to that vibrant reiterated growl, 

 falling at times from sound to mere sensa- 

 tion, rising again louder and even louder 

 in long-drawn resonance — boom — boom — 



