On a pitch-black, storm-racked night, a man sits alone as his lamp gutters out. The howling wind, crashing thunder, and cries of night-ravens don’t frighten him — he insists his heart is “hard as iron.” What does rattle him is the quiet, persistent voice of his own conscience, speaking over the chaos. It’s a prelude to something far worse.
Out of the whirlwind, the ghost of the murdered Victoria strides toward him, holding a shadowy shroud. The apparition’s grim approach turns the scene into pure Gothic dread. The speaker’s earlier bravado melts into desperation as he shrieks for the storm to carry him away. The poem feels like a confession glimpsed through nightmare imagery — all chills, guilt, and the sickening certainty that the dead don’t stay buried.