| |
| THE HEAVY sounds are over-sweet | |
| That droop above the hooded street, | |
| At any moment ripe to fall and lie; | |
| And when that wind will swagger up the town | |
| They’ll bend a moment, then will fly | 5 |
| All clattering down. | |
| |
| Troops come and go of urchin breeze; | |
| They flick your face or smack the trees, | |
| Then round the corner spin and leap | |
| With whistling cries, | 10 |
| Rake their rubbish in a heap | |
| And throw it in your eyes. | |
| |
| (Much preparation of the earth and air | |
| Is needed everywhere | |
| Before that first large drop of rain can fall.) | 15 |
| |
| Smells of the sea, or inland grass, | |
| Come staring through the town and pass. | |
| Brilliant old Memories drive in state | |
| Along the way, but cannot wait; | |
| And many a large unusual bird | 20 |
| Hovers across the sky half-heard. | |
| |
| But listen. It is He— | |
| At last he comes: | |
| Gigantic tyrant panting through the street, | |
| Slamming the windows of our little homes, | 25 |
| Banging the doors, knocking the chimneys down. | |
| Oh, his loud tramp: how scornfully he can meet | |
| Great citizens, and lash them with his sleet! | |
| Everything will be altered in our town. | |
| |
| He’ll wipe the film of habit clean away. | 30 |
| While he remains, | |
| His cloak is over everything we do, | |
| And the whole town complains. | |
| |
| A sombre scroll; | |
| An inner room. | 35 |
| A crystal bowl: | |
| Waters of gloom. | |
| Oh, the darkened house— | |
| Into silence creep. | |
| The world is cold; | 40 |
| The people weep. | |
| |
