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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
Did you compose it?
Effects are stupendous.
TicK