Song of the Storm-Swept Plain

The wind shrills forth 

From the white cold North 

Where the gates of the Storm-god are; 

And ragged clouds, 

Like mantling shrouds,

Engulf the last, dim star. 

Through naked trees, 

In low coulees, 

The night-voice moans and sighs; 

And sings of deep, 

Warm cradled sleep, 

With wind-crooned lullabies. 

He stands alone 

Where the storm’s weird tone

In mocking swells; 

And the snow-sharp breath 

Of cruel Death 

The tales of its coming tells. 

The frightened plaint

Of his sheep sound faint

Then the choking wall of white—

Then is heard no more, 

In the deep-toned roar, 

Of the blinding, pathless night. 

No light nor guide,

Save a mighty tide

Of mad fear drives him on;

’Till his cold-numbed form 

Grows strangely warm;

And the strength of his limbs is gone. 

Through the storm and night

A strange, soft light 

O’er the sleeping shepherd gleams;

And he hears the word 

Of the Shepherd Lord 

Called out from the bourne of dreams. 

Come, leave the strife 

Of your weary life;

Come unto Me and rest 

From the night and cold, 

To the sheltered fold,

By the hand of love caressed. 

The storm shrieks on,

But its work is done—

A soul to its God has fled;

And the wild refrain 

Of the wind-swept plain, 

Sings requiem for the dead.