So thou art come again, old black-winged night, 
 Like an huge bird, between us and the sun, 
Hiding, with out-stretched form, the genial light; 
 And still, beneath thine icy bosom's dun 
And cloudy plumage, hatching fog-breathed blight 
 And embryo storms, and crabbéd frosts, that shun 
Day's warm caress. The owls from ivied loop 
 Are shrieking homage, as thou cowerest high; 
Like sable crow pausing in eager stoop 
 On the dim world thou gluttest thy clouded eye, 
Silently waiting latest time's fell whoop, 
 When thou shalt quit thine eyrie in the sky, 
 To pounce upon the world with eager claw, 
And tomb time, death, and substance in thy maw.