The pale fierce heavens are crowded
With shapes like dreams beclouded,
As though the old year enshrouded
⁠Lay, long ere life were done.

Full‑charged with old-world wonders,
From dusk Tintagel thunders
A note that smites and sunders
⁠The hard frore fields of air;
A trumpet stormier‑sounded
Than once from lists rebounded
When strong men sense‑confounded
⁠Fell thick in tourney there.

From scarce a duskier dwelling
Such notes of wail rose welling
Through the outer darkness, telling
⁠In the awful singer's ears