Blue through the window burns the twilight;
Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.
Glistening¹, against the chill, gray sky light,
Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.
Sodden² and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot
Dents into pools where a foot has been.
Puddles³ lie spilt in the road a mass, not
Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.
Faint fades the fire on the hearth⁴, its embers
Scattering wide at a stronger gust⁵.
Above, the old weathercock groans⁶, but remembers
Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust⁷.
Dying, forlorn, in dreary⁸ sorrow,
Wrapping the mists round her withering⁹ form,
Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.

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