Fearless riders of the gale, In your bleak eyes is the memory Of sinking ships: Desire, unsatisfied, Droops from your wings. You lie at dusk In the sea’s ebbing cradles, Unresponsive to its mood; Or hover and swoop, Snatching your food and rising again, Greedy, Unthinking. You veer and steer your callous course, Unloved of other birds; And in your soulless cry Is the mocking echo Of woman’s weeping in the night.
The squall sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills,
And the startled lake seems to run before it;
From the wood comes a clamor of leaves,
Tugging at the twigs,
Pouring from the branches,
And suddenly the birds are still.
Thunder crumples the sky,
Lightning tears at it.
And now the rain!
The wind, reveling in the confusion of great pines!
And a silver sifting of light,
A sense of summer anger passing,
Of summer gentleness creeping nearer—