The Sign

There's not a soul on the square,         And the snow blows up like a sail,         Or dizzily drifts like a drunken man         Falling, before the gale.         And when the wind eddies it rifts         The snow that lies in drifts;         And it skims along the walk and sifts         In stairways, doorways all about         The steps of the church in an angry rout.         And one would think that a hungry hound         Was out in the cold for the sound.         But I do not seem to mind         The snow that makes one blind,         Nor the crying voice of the wind,         I hate to hear the creak of the sign         Of Harmon Whitney, attorney at law:         With its rhythmic monotone of awe.         And neither a moan nor yet a whine,         Nor a cry of pain, one can't define         The sound of a creaking sign.         Especially if the sky be bleak,         And no one stirs however you seek,         And every time you hear it creak         You wonder why they leave it stay         When a man is buried and hidden away         Many a day!