Flora Pauline Wilson Kopta, Bohemian legends and other poems (1896)
“ The whirlwind is howling—the night it is dark— The mountains like giants frown down on the scene. The hall from whose windows a flickering light shines, Is the only shelter for miles to be seen. The whirlwind is raging through turrets and eaves, It shrieks by the windows, it howls at the door. Near by in the forest the trees creak and moan, As the wind rushes through, with terrible roar. “God be with the stranger that wanders to-night, Amidst our wild mountains,” the servant said low, And lit the red light at the Crucifix’s feet. ”
