THE LAST STORM

From north, from east, the strong wind hurries down Against the window-pane the sleet rings fast; The moon hath hid her face away, aghast, And darkness keeps each corner of the town. The garden hedges wear a heavy crown, And the old poplars shriek, as night drifts past, That, leagues on desolate leagues away, at last One comes to know he too must surely drown. And yet at noon, to-morrow, when I go Out to the white, white edges of the plain, I shall not grieve for this night's hurricane, Seeing how, in a little hollow, sinks the snow Around the southmost tree, where a lean crow Sits noisily impatient for the rain.