THE SIGN
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here's not a soul on the square,And the snow blows up like a sail,Or dizzily drifts like a drunken manFalling, before the gale. And when the wind eddies it riftsThe snow that lies in drifts;And it skims along the walk and siftsIn stairways, doorways all aboutThe steps of the church in an angry rout.And one would think that a hungry houndWas out in the cold for the sound. But I do not seem to mindThe snow that makes one blind,Nor the crying voice of the wind--I hate to hear the creak of the signOf Harmon Whitney, attorney at law:With its rhythmic monotone of awe.And neither a moan nor yet a whine,Nor a cry of pain--one can't defineThe sound of a creaking sign. Especially if the sky be bleak,And no one stirs however you seek,And every time you hear it creakYou wonder why they leave it stayWhen a man is buried and hidden awayMany a day!
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