Again—what is 't? The wind? No, no,—this time

It is the sable Friar as before,

With awful footsteps regular as rhyme,

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more.

Again through shadows of the night sublime,

When deep sleep fell on men,[809] and the World wore

The starry darkness round her like a girdle

Spangled with gems—the Monk made his blood curdle.