Woods and coppices by tempest lashed; Pollard shockheads glaring in the rain; Jet-black underwood with crimson splashed- Rich November, one wet crimson stain! Turf that whispered moistly to the tread; Bursts of laughter from the shuffled leaves; Pools of light in distant arbours spread; Depths of darkness under forest eaves. High above the wind the clouds at rest Emptied every vat and steeply hurled Reservoirs and floods; the wild nor'west Raked the downpour ere it reached the world; Part in wanton sport and part in ire, Flights of rain on ruddy foliage rang: Woven showers like sheets of silver fire Streamed; and all the forest rocked and sang. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHAMBER THICKET by SHARON OLDS NOT TRANSHISTORICAL DEATH, OR AT LEAST NOT QUITE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE by JAMES GALVIN THE CROSS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON BRER RABBIT, YOU'S DE CUTES' OF 'EM ALL by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |