Not, where the stairway turns in the dark, A hooded figure, shriveled under a flowing cloak! Not yellow eyes in the room at night, Staring out from a surface of cobweb gray! And not the flap of a condor wing, When the roar of life in your ears begins As a sound heard never before! But on a sunny afternoon, By a country road, Where purple rag-weeds bloom along a straggling fence, And the field is gleaned, and the air is still, To see against the sunlight something black, Like a blot with an iris rim— That is the sign to eyes of second sight … And that I saw!