Clouds--are they bony witches?--swarms,
Darting swift on the robber's flight,
It peeps, it becks; 'tis day, 'tis night.
Black while over the loop of blue
The swathe is closed, like shroud on corse.
Lo, as if swift the Furies flew,
The Fates at heel at a cry to horse!
And is it Nature scourged, or she,