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| THE MOODY wind—is this its grudge day? Whoo! | |
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| Against the dusty sky, in the late sun, | |
| A veering flock of mottled pigeons bounce | |
| From the shoulders of a gust. In our village street | |
| The captious wind runs races with itself, | 5 |
| As a dog pursues its tail; with brute persistence | |
| It buffets leafless elm and maple bough, | |
Tears at the stiff-armed oak.
From the window-pane | |
| Little Fred looks for his father—he grew tired | |
| Of playing outdoors with so rude a comrade; | 10 |
| For the wind hustles, keeps on pushing people, | |
| Makes the street a barrier to neighboring houses, | |
Besieges timid folk.
Now the reddish sun | |
| Abandons the world to the wind. In alien twilight | |
| He whistles at keyhole, hisses at the window, | 15 |
| Makes all the timbers groan, exults—cuwooff! | |
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| Our lamplight in the kitchen shudders, staggers, | |
| As Burton blows in from the writhing darkness, | |
| And sets both knee and shoulder to the door | |
To force it shut.
“Hooray! I want my supper! | 20 |
| Good thing the trees are rooted! How the draught | |
Reddens the stovepipe!”
Supper chat is over. | |
| I look out; clouds are hurrying past the stars; | |
| I listen to the rising talk of the wind: | |
| Puff, pant, moan, roar, and wail. It flaps and tugs | 25 |
| At fence and gate, it throws a wooden bench | |
| Tumbling along the yard. I ask myself, | |
| Has the wind any grudge against our house? | |
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| At bed-time it still rages. In the night | |
| I lie and hear the creature—wiff, cuwooff!— | 30 |
| Rattling the sashes, bruising on the gable | |
The budding twigs of the elm.
I move to the window: | |
| My husband sleeps as men who labor sleep; | |
| And Fred and Jimmie both lie full of sleep. | |
| Little Mabel stirs—is it that nerves of women | 35 |
| Respond to the nerves of storms? Cuwiff, cuwooff! | |
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| Unquiet stars. Dim leafless shapes of elm | |
| Beating the dark between me and the stars; | |
| Twisted at, jerked at, strained to the inmost heart, | |
| Surging at the roots, moaning in the angry wind. | 40 |
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| Why should this monster need the help of night? | |
| The rushing presence, with invisible bulk, | |
| Has laid a heaving shoulder to my house: | |
| The timbers strain, walls quiver, my heart shakes. | |
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| A thump, a crash on the roof, the bouncing slide | 45 |
Of a brick—a dozen bricks—
“O Burton, say!— | |
| It’s got the chimney! Bring the boys down cellar! | |
| I’m afraid of the wind in such a night! Come, Mabel! | |
I’ll wrap you in this quilt!”
Cuwiff! Cuwooff! | |
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