Menken, Adah Isaacs
The Storm struggles with the Darkness.
Folded away in your arms, how little do I heed their
battle121The trees clash in vain their naked swords against the
I go not forth while the low murmur of your voice is
drifting all else back to silence.
The darkness presses his black forehead close to the
window pane, and beckons me without.
Love holds a lamp in this little room that hath power
to blot back Fear.
But will the lamp ever starve for oil?
Will its blood-red flame ever grow faint and blue?
Will it appear itself to a slender line of light?
Will it grow pallid and motionless?
Will it sink rayless to everlasting death?
Oh, answer me!