IT is a storm-strid night, winds footing swift Through the blind profound; I know the happenings from their sound; Leaves totter down still green, and spin and drift; The tree-trunks rock to their roots, which wrench and lift The loam where they run onward underground. The streams are muddy and swollen; eels migrate To a new abode; Even cross, 'tis said, the turnpike-road; (Men's feet have felt their crawl, home-coming late): The westward fronts of towers are saturate, Church-timbers crack, and witches ride abroad. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TRUE UNTIL DEATH by ROBERT BURNS IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW A MATCH by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE WHEN I PERUSE THE CONQUER'D FAME by WALT WHITMAN BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF 'PHILLIDA FLOUTS ME' by PATRICK CAREY THE CANTERBURY TALES: EPILOGUE TO THE NUN'S PRIEST'S TALE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER |