James Benjamin Kenyon (1858–1924)

BLOWN through the gusty spaces of the night,

The pale clouds fleet like ghosts along the sky;

A fitful wind goes moaning feebly by,

And the faint moon, poised o’er the craggy height,

Dies in its own uncertain, misty light.

Within the hills the water springs are dry;

The herbs are withered; and the sand wastes lie

Dim, wide, and lonely to the weary sight.

Behold! her awful vigil she will keep

Through the wan night as through the burning day;

Though all the world should sleep she will not sleep,

But watch, wild-eyed and fierce, to scare away,

As round and round, with hoarse, low cries they creep,

From her dead sons the hungry beasts of prey.