• POETRY.
A WILD NIGHT.
THE ivy beats upon the wall,
The owls across the blind fields call, And the oak by the housedoor Bends stiffly down, to implore Mercy, mercy of the wind.
But other hordes race up behind, And his aged limbs are twisted and tossed, And the skies are stung with the twigs he's lost, While he groans by the housedoor.
The carpets swell above the floor, And the fireside cat, coiled up for sleep,
Feels her fur rise, her flesh creep.
Closed doors rattle at their locks; And the crowing of the midnight cocks Is caught and tossed from side to side Of the shrunken sky as the winds ride Shrieking aloud, booming with deep blast, Whispering—hissing with lips aghast, Blowing on, on with bateless strength Till the gentle elms are laid full-length, And the larch is shaken and falls in the wood, And leans in the arms of those that have stood Around it, its brothers, from birth till now, This moment of groaning root and torn bough.
The dark aisles of the woods are strown With dead limbs, longtime grown Sapless and brittle, that once blew Limefiower secrets the -summer through, Now splintered, pulled from their lichened sleep By these hordes that pounce and leap With shrill cry, with deep roar, with faint Whisper, distant sighings, and that restraint Which preludes invulnerable onslaught And fiercer combats to be fought.
—But the wind slacks—the trees arise And, cold with terror, scan the skies To learn if it's over, the agony done, . . . But no new assaults have begun!
RICHARD CHURCH.
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