March Evening
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lue through the window burns the twilight;Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,Wet, black branches are barred and entwined. Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plotDents into pools where a foot has been.Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, notOf water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen. Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embersScattering wide at a stronger gust.Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembersCreaking, to turn, in its centuried rust. Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,Wrapping the mists round her withering form,Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrowTravails to birth in the womb of the storm.
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