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Up in the lonely tower he sits, The keeper of the crimson light- Silent and awe-struck does he hear The imprecations of the night. The white spray beats against the panes Like some wet ghost that down the air Is hunted by a troop of fiends, And seeks a shelter anywhere. Still sweep the spectres through the sky, Still scud the clouds before the storm, Still naked in the howling night The red-eyed light-house lifts its form. Without, the world is wild with rage, Unkenneled demons are abroad, But with the father and the son Within, there is the peace of God