In the creeping night the black winds cry.
The daylight comes like a stifled sigh.
The hearths gleam red, while the long smoke
Crawls up to a grayer sky.




Winter Winds

Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds
are laid on the back of the land,
Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting
the feet of the plain,
Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe
at the lift of the hand,
And the white-ribbed waves on the granite shore
moan and sob in their pain.

Never a sail on that sharp straight line
that marks the steel of the sky;
Never a wing flees in from death to crouch
in the rattling reeds;
In the shaggy heads of the black coast pines
the frozen spume drives high;
And even the hand of the leering sun lies cold
on the tattered weeds.

A month ago and the warm winds ran over the stalks
of gold,