This page has been validated.
A MARCH EVENING
Ah—hush!
What moved? What’s all that sudden rush
Of something white—can those be lambs?
They glimmer ’mid their scarce-seen dams
Like baby-ghosts. . . . And now a warm
Sweet whiff of hay . . . the half-way farm
Must be at hand; but where’s the light?
Ah, there. . . . And now ’tis past. The night
Is on us. The black world around
Lies steep’d in loneliness profound.
We plod a mile, and do not speak.
. . . A stinging scud of rain! And bleak
And bleaker comes the wind, with whirls
That choke one, and wild whoops and skirls
Worrying one mad. . . . How foolish! Yet
You, too, begin to whine and fret,
Rover! What is it? Just the storm?
Or can you scent some fiendish form
52
