Southeast， and storm， and every weathervane

    shivers and moans upon its dripping pin，

    ragged¹ on chimneys the cloud whips， the rain

    howls at the flues and windows to get in，

    the golden rooster claps his golden wings

    and from the Baptist Chapel² shrieks⁴ no more，

    the golden arrow into the southeast sings

    and hears on the roof the Atlantic Ocean roar.

    Waves among wires， sea scudding⁵ over poles，

    down every alley⁶ the magnificence of rain，

    dead gutters⁷ live once more， the deep manholes

    hollo in triumph a passage to the main.

    Umbrellas， and in the Gardens one old man

    hurries away along a dancing path，

    listens to music on a watering-can，

    observes among the tulips the sudden wrath⁸，

    pale willows⁹ thrashing to the needled lake，

    and dinghies filled with water； while the sky

    smashes the lilacs， swoops¹⁰ to shake and break，

    till shattered branches shriek³ and railings cry.

    Speak， Hatteras， your language of the sea：

    scour¹¹ with kelp and spindrift the stale street：

    that man in terror may learn once more to be

    child of that hour when rock and ocean meet.