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Listen. The wind is still,
And far away in the night—
See! The uplands fill
With a running light.
Open the doors. It is warm;
And where the sky was clear —
Look! The head of a storm
That marches here!
Come under the trembling hedge—
Fast, although you fumble. . . .
There! Did you hear the edge
Of winter crumble?
This poem is in the public domain.
In the middle of the wood it starts,
Then over the wall and the meadow
And into our ears all day. But it departs—
Sometimes—like a shadow.
There is an instant when it grows
Too weak to climb a solid fence,
And creeps to find a crack. But the wind blows,
Scattering it hence
Rain last night has left the field
Bare as though a goblin kept it;
Inch by inch the fellow kneeled
And picked it clean; and his wife swept it.
Tomorrow morning when I pass
A million particles will shine,
As if the sky had been of glass
And had fallen, shattered fine.
Suddenly, across the road,
A river of strange waters flowed,
And my old friend I ran to see
Stood and only waved at me,
I cried aloud the things we did
So long ago—and the stream slid
More quietly a little while.
I saw him nod and faintly smile,