Ten O'Clock No More[1]

The wind has thrown     The boldest of trees down.     Now disgraced it lies,     Naked in spring beneath the drifting skies,     Naked and still.     It was the wind     So furious and blind     That scourged half England through,     Ruining the fairest where most fair it grew     By dell and hill.     And springing here,     The black clouds dragging near,     Against this lonely elm     Thrust all his strength to maim and overwhelm     In one wild shock.     As in the deep     Satisfaction of dark sleep     The tree her dream dreamed on,     And woke to feel the wind's arms round her thrown     And her head rock.     And the wind raught     Her ageing boughs and caught     Her body fast again.     Then in one agony of age, grief, pain,     She fell and died.     Her noble height,     Branches that loved the light,     Her music and cool shade,     Her memories and all of her is dead     On the hill side.     But the wind stooped.     With madness tired, and drooped     In the soft valley and slept.     While morning strangely round the hush'd tree crept     And called in vain.     The birds fed where     The roots uptorn and bare     Thrust shameful at the sky;     And pewits round the tree would dip and cry     With the old pain.     "Ten o'clock's gone!"     Said sadly every one.     And mothers looking thought     Of sons and husbands far away that fought:--     And looked again.