The north wind came up yesternight With the new year’s full moon, And rising as she gained her height, Grew to a tempest soon. Yet found he not on heaven’s face A task of cloud to clear; There was no speck that he might chase Off the blue hemisphere, Nor vapour from the land to drive: The frost-bound country held Nought motionable or alive, That ’gainst his wrath rebelled. There scarce was hanging in the wood A shrivelled leaf to reave; No bud had burst its swathing hood That he could rend or grieve: Only the tall tree-skeletons, Where they were shadowed all, Wavered a little on the stones, And on the white church-wall. —Like as an artist in his mood, Who reckons all as nought, So he may quickly paint his nude, Unutterable thought: So Nature in a frenzied hour By day or night will show Dim indications of the power, That doometh man to woe. Ah, many have my visions been, And some I know full well: I would that all that I have seen Were fit for speech to tell.— And by the churchyard as I came, It seemed my spirit passed Into a land that hath no name, Grey, melancholy and vast; Where nothing comes: but Memory, The widowed queen of Death, Reigns, and with fixed, sepulchral eye All slumber banisheth. Each grain of writhen dust, that drapes That sickly, staring shore, Its old chaotic change of shapes Remembers evermore. And ghosts of cities long decayed, And ruined shrines of Fate Gather the paths, that Time hath made Foolish and desolate. Nor winter there hath hope of spring, Nor the pale night of day, Since the old king with scorpion sting Hath done himself away. * * * * * The morn was calm; the wind’s last breath Had fal’n: in solemn hush The golden moon went down beneath The dawning’s crimson flush. 16 NORTH WIND IN OCTOBER In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all; From the sered boughs of the oak the acorns fall: The beech scatters her ruddy fire; The lime hath stripped to the cold, And standeth naked above her yellow attire: The larch thinneth her spire To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold. Out of the golden-green and white Of the brake the fir-trees stand upright In the forest of flame, and wave aloft To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.