The wind shrills forth From the white cold North Where the gates of the Storm-god are; And ragged clouds, Like mantling shrouds, Engulf the last, dim star. Through naked trees, In low coulees, The night-voice moans and sighs; And sings of deep, Warm cradled sleep, With wind-crooned lullabies. He stands alone Where the storm's weird tone In mocking swells; And the snow-sharp breath Of cruel Death The tales of its coming tells. The frightened plaint Of his sheep sound faint Then the choking wall of white— Then is heard no more, In the deep-toned roar, Of the blinding, pathless night. No light nor guide, Save a mighty tide Of mad fear drives him on; 'Till his cold-numbed form Grows strangely warm; And the strength of his limbs is gone. Through the storm and night A strange, soft light O'er the sleeping shepherd gleams; And he hears the word Of the Shepherd Lord Called out from the bourne of dreams. Come, leave the strife Of your weary life; Come unto Me and rest From the night and cold, To the sheltered fold, By the hand of love caressed. The storm shrieks on, But its work is done— A soul to its God has fled; And the wild refrain Of the wind-swept plain, Sings requiem for the dead. This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on November 17, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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