Classic Poem

He took the rifle from the cupboard shelf
And, having oiled the catch and greased the barrel,
He put it back again. At last he turned
And tried the window-locks, and stood awhile
Watching the snow pile hummocks on itself
Where there was scarcely any need for mounds,
And lay fresh sheets above the piece of ground,
Such as it was, that soon would be his bed.
Something, somebody's saying, half a phrase
Kept him there standing at the kitchen door.
It almost came, escaped him, and went out
Back to the pine-trees where it grew. He followed,
Afraid of nothing but a childish fear
Of all outdoors that made him hum his tune
A little louder than he meant to do.
“In Amsterdam there lived a maid”—and so
On to the shameless end of it; at least
Nearly the end. For, toward the final bars,
Behind the witch-grass and hepaticas,
A great white wolf appeared as suddenly
As though the snow had made or blown him there.
He thought of fairy-tales he had forgotten
And what, for reasons, he could not forget
Of werewolves and the time he had run off
To see the animals in Barnum's circus.
He took a doubtful step and then undid it
To gain a minute's time; thought of the gun
Within hand's reach; then put the thought
Out of his mind to let another in:
Something he must have heard or maybe read
Concerning music and the savage breast.
So to his song again, and to the last
Lewd notes of it. When he looked up, there was
A windless stir in the forsythia trees,
An empty space where the strange beast had been,
And nothing else changed from an hour ago.
The moon went through a twisted apple tree
That leaned its crooked length against the sky.
A log snapped in the stove, reminding him
That he had meant to bring some kindling in
And that it must be late and he was cold.
He watched the moon a moment, shut the door;
Tried all the window-locks again, pulled down
The shades, blew out the light and clomped upstairs.