# The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Superstition

Superstition.
Dim power! by very indistinctness made More potent, as the twilight's shade Gives magnitude to objects mean; Thou power, though deeply felt, unseen, That with thy mystic, undefined, And boundless presence, fills my mind With unimaginable fears, and chills My aching heart, and all its pulses stills Into a silence deeper than the grave, That erst throbbed quick and brave! Wherefore, at dead of night, by some lone stream, Dost thou, embodying its very sound In thy own substance, seem To speak of some lorn maiden, who hath found Her bridal pillow deftly spread Upon the tall reeds' rustling head, And the long green sedges graceful sweep, Where the otter and the wild drake sleep? And wherefore, in the moonshine clear, Doth her wan form appear
For ever gliding on the water's breast As shadowy mist that hath no rest, But wanders idly to and fro Whithersoe'er the wavering winds may blow?
Thou mystic spirit tell, Why in the hollow murmurs of that bell Which load the passing wind, Each deep full tone but echoes to my mind The footfall of the dead— The almost voiceless, nameless tread, And restless stirring to and fro of those To whom the grave itself can never yield repose, But whose dark, guilty sprites Wander and wail with glowworm lights Within the circle of the yew tree's shade, Until the gray cock flaps his wings, And the dubious light of morn upsprings O'er yonder hoar hills' dewy head?
And say, while seated under this grey arch Where old Time oft in sooth Hath whet his pitiless tooth, And gnawed clean through Its ivy and moss-velvet coat of greenest hue, I watch the moon's swift march
Through paths of heavenly blue: Methinks that there are eyes which gaze on me, And jealous spirits breathing near, who be Floating around me, or in pensive mood Throned on some shatter'd column's ivied head, Hymning a warning lay in solitude, Making the silent loneness of the place More chilly, deep, and dead, And more befitting haunt for their aerial race?
Terribly lovely power! I ask of thee, Wherefore so lord it o'er my phantasye, That in the forests moaning sound, And in the cascade's far-off muttered noise, And in the breeze of midnight, and the bound And leap of ocean billows heard afar, I still do deem these are The whispering melodies of things that be Immortal, viewless, formless—not of earth, But heaven descended, and thus softly At midnight mingling their wild mirth: Or, when pale Dian loves to shroud Her fair and glittering form, beneath the veil Of watery mist or dusky fire-edged cloud, And giant shadows sail With stately march athwart the heaven's calm face;
Say then, why unto me is given A clearer vision, so that I do see Between the limits of the earth and heaven A bright and marvellous race— A goodly shining company— Flaunting in garments of unsullied snow, That ever and anon do come and go From star to hill top, or green hollow glen, And so back again?
Those visions strange, and portents dark and wild, That in fond childhood had a painful pleasure, Have not, by reason's voice, been quite exiled, But still possess their relish in full measure; And by a secret and consummate art At certain times benumb my awe-struck heart— Making it quail, but not with dastard fear, But strange presentiment and awe severe, With curious impertinence to pry Behind the veil of dim futurity, And that undying hope that we may still Grasp at the purpose of the Eternal Will.