A Phantom Intimation

Last night the lightning's scythe reaped a grey swathe
Of rain and laid it wetly down on earth;
Then fireflies came and sprinkled it with glow
And phantom mists walked on it to and fro.
The pallid skull of the moon rose in the east
And peered with hollow sockets on the scene,
And the lone and ever inarticulate wind
Slipped sighingly by like a spirit that has sinned.

Spectrally moved, I felt, in the wet dark,
Pale fungi pushing up out of the sod,
And in the groping of them seemed to mark
Some movement of the loneliness of God.
It was as if each reached a spirit finger
For Him into my heart and bade me linger.