“. . . one . . . with a writer’s inkhorn by his side . . .” —Ezekiel 9:2
The frigid rain glints fire about
the ice-drawn, lamplit night.
My skin is pricked with haily heat,
and warms my soul from skin to bone.
The slickened streets leave trails behind
the hansoms as they pass;
and men and ladies finely clad
glance fearful out at windswept trees.
Above the clouds, I’m sure a moon
the gloom doth try to strike,
but only flickering gaslamp flames
can whiten darkened streets.
So clear’s the air above the street:
no fog impedes the gaslight-glare.
Like silver sleet, the skydrops fall
and blend to gold in trembling pools.
Oh, how the flame makes bright the night!
Oh, how the rain from ill makes right!
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