From where I sit, I see the stars, 
 And down the chilly floor
 The moon between the frozen bars 
 Is glimmering dim and hoar.
 Without in many a peakèd mound 
 The glinting snowdrifts lie;
 There is no voice or living sound; 
 The embers slowly die.
 Yet some wild thing is in mine ear; 
 I hold my breath and hark;
 Out of the depth I seem to hear 
 A crying in the dark;

 No sound of man or wife or child,
 No sound of beast that groans,
 Or of the wind that whistles wild, 
 Or of the tree that moans:
 I know not what it is I hear;
 I bend my head and hark:
 I cannot drive it from mine ear, 
 That crying in the dark.