One of those days of wind and all but rain,
That dilate the tiny vessels of the brain;
The sky a dim but stubborn glow –
Portending what? We cannot know.
A wind which pulling not cannot be pushed,
And never wild is never hushed;
When oaks that wail and gales and laugh at years
Can manage but a few dry tears,
When sparrows bicker among draughty leaves,
And feverish grasses whisper their unease.
Poems