(First in L. A. P. W. National Sonnet Contest, 1934) The hounds of winter now are here, they bare Their teeth in wild attack; their quivering cry Runs trembling through the nipping, frosty air, While cold stars glitter in the windy sky. A crescent moon throws out a pale, weird light On naked trees that groan in icy fear— The gaunt, gray hounds go chasing through the night, Their high-pitched baying, faint, then crystal clear. The frenzied pack race onward with a will, They cross the barren fields by leaps and bounds— Fleet-foot it through the valley—make the hill, Deep belling as they onward sweep—O, hounds Of winter, with your bitter, piercing breath You blast frail life, with black and certain death. |