Classic Poem

The clouds blown together, like ragged whorls of smoke,
Stretch long and twisted fingers up in the west:
And in their grip hangs weltering, half extinguished,
The ruby of the sun.

The wind like a cripple rolls over dark purple moors;
And in the hollows the old bare beeches sing
A ballad of winter, while in their dry, stirring leaves
A frightened squirrel scurries off in dismay.