Pale, without name or number,

In fruitless fields of corn,

They bow themselves and slumber

All night till light is born;

And like a soul belated,

In hell and heaven unmated,

By cloud and mist abated

Comes out of darkness morn.

"The Garden of Proserpine"

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Caroline woke in bed alone, her panic rising again, but the sounds of the shower relieved her fears that Lincoln was gone. ...