Clearing

Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks, The pleated crimson hollyhocks         Are bending; And, smouldering in the breaking brown, Above the hills that edge the town,         The day is ending. The air is heavy with the damp; And, one by one, each cottage lamp         Is lighted; Infrequent passers of the street Stroll on or stop to talk or greet,         Benighted. I look beyond my city yard, And watch the white moon struggling hard,         Cloud-buried; The wind is driving toward the east, A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creased         And serried. At times the moon, erupting, streaks Some long cloud; like Andean peaks         That double Horizon-vast volcano chains, The earthquake scars with lava veins         That bubble. The wind that blows from out the hills Is like a woman's touch that stills         A sorrow: The moon sits high with many a star In the deep calm: and fair and far         Abides to-morrow.