Nathaniel Hawthorne lived under an arch of glooms.
Invisible scarves of undertaker’s crepe
Twisted at his throat to fasten on him
And he fought forever lifelong
The winds whipping to fasten these scarves.

Between two ears under a bone dome: caverns,
Or if we so choose dank tarns:
And here he swam forever lifelong
Round and round in the destiny of a brass bowl
Lined with an inner dark of sea-green tarnish.

The wind whipping those scarves, of course,
Is another metaphor.