For three days the winds have been here.
Swirling, rushing, raging…
The trees are distraught, leaves scattering the stones of the house are groaning.
Is this autumn’s end?
Is winter, bullish, trying to impose?
Sometimes it sounds like the sea, crashing on ancient rock, sometimes it sounds like the banshees.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drenched our steeples,
drowned the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head!
(it IS white!)
And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world!
Crack nature's molds, all germens spill at once
That make ingrateful man!
(Actually I’m quite grateful!)
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