Clearing

Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks, The pleated, crimson hollyhocks Are bending; And, smouldering in the breaking brown, Above the hills that rim the town, The day is ending.

The air is heavy with the damp; And, one by one, each cottage lamp Is lighted; Infrequent passers of the street Stroll on or stop to talk or greet, Benighted.

I look beyond my city yard, And watch the white moon struggling hard, Cloud-buried; The wind is driving toward the east, A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creased And serried.

At times the moon, erupting, streaks Some long cloud, raised in mountain peaks Of shadow,-- That, seamed with silver, vein on vein, Grows to a far volcano chain Of Eldorado.

The wind, that blows from out the hills, Is like a woman’s touch that stills A sorrow: The moon sits high with many a star In the deep calm: and fair and far Abides to-morrow.