Blue through the window burns the twilight;

Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.

Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,

Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot

Dents into pools where a foot has been.

Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not

Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers

Scattering wide at a stronger gust.

Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers

Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,

Wrapping the mists round her withering form,

Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow

Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.