The old man, broken and propless quite. Watches them still from the infinite Coming towards him--and hath beside Nothing to do, but in earth to hide His multiple death, thus bit by bit, And, with fingers irresolute, plant on it Crosses so hastily, day by day, Since what long times--he cannot say. THE WIND Crossing the infinite length of the moorland, Here comes the wind, The wind with his trumpet that Heralds November; Endless and infinite, crossing the downs, Here comes the wind That teareth himself and doth fiercely dismember; Which heavy breaths turbulent smiting the towns, The savage wind comes, the fierce wind of November! Each bucket of iron at the wells of the farmyards, Each bucket and pulley, it creaks and it wails; By cisterns of farmyards, the pulleys and pails They creak and they cry, The whole of sad death in their melancholy. The wind, it sends scudding dead leaves from the birches Along o'er the water, the wind of November, The savage, fierce wind; The boughs of the trees for the birds' nests it searches, To bite them and grind. The wind, as though rasping down iron, grates past, And, furious and fast, from afar combs the cold And white avalanches of winter the old. The savage wind combs them so furious and fast. The wind of November. From each miserable shed The patched garret-windows wave wild overhead Their foolish, poor tatters of paper and glass. As the savage, fierce wind of November doth pass! And there on its hill Of dingy and dun-coloured turf, the black mill, Swift up from below, through the empty air slashing, Swift down from above, like a lightning-stroke flashing, The black mill so sinister moweth the wind. The savage, fierce wind of November! The old, ragged thatches that squat round their steeple, Are raised on their roof-poles, and fall with a clap, In the wind the old thatches and pent-houses flap, In the wind of November, so savage and hard. The crosses--and they are the arms of dead people-- The crosses that stand in the narrow churchyard Fall prone on the sod Like some great flight of black, in the acre of God. The wind of November! Have you met him, the savage wind, do you remember? Did he pass you so fleet, --Where, yon at the cross, the three hundred roads meet-- With distressfulness panting, and wailing with cold? Yea, he who breeds fears and puts all things to flight, Did you see him, that night When the moon he o'erthrew--when the villages, old In their rot and decay, past endurance and spent, Cried, wailing like beasts, 'neath the hurricane bent? Here comes the wind howling, that heralds dark weather, The wind blowing infinite over the heather. The wind with his trumpet that heralds November! THE FISHERMEN The spot is flaked with mist, that fills, Thickening into rolls more dank, The thresholds and the window-sills, And smokes on every bank.