Now, wind and cloud draw violence in their wake.
All things are changed; familiar trees may seem
As grim as basilisks, dark seas may break
On safe suburban lawns, or sparked from air,
A knife-sharp glitter of inconstant light
Cut loose the trembling fabric of the night.
This is the hour and climate of our choice,
The sweet reversal of a temperate fate,
So strange and tender now, the face and voice,
The touch of tongue on tongue; while thunder sounds,
While work-day wishes fade, we’ll taste at last
Heroic passions dreamed of in the past.
And then the aftermath, the quiet time,
Will lead us back to our accustomed selves;
A room will circle us and firelight climb
Where shadows flowed unchecked.
The storm will send,
As relic of our indecisive gain,
The small, companionable murmur of the rain.
