Classic Poem

Like a hard cruel lash the long lean winds are laid on the back of the land,
Curling over the breast of the hills and cutting the feet of the plain,
Till the naked limbs of the forest host cringe at the lift of the hand,
And the white-ribbed waves on the granite shore moan and sob in their pain.

Never a sail on that sharp straight line that marks the steel of the sky;
Never a wing flees in from death to crouch in the rattling reeds;
In the shaggy heads of the black coast pines the frozen spume drives high;
And even the hand of the leering sun lies cold on the tattered weeds.

A month ago and the warm winds ran over the stalks of gold,
With the grass-heads wet in the morning mists and the daisies topped with bees;
And now the last of the year lies dead, the world walks bent and old,
And only the bitter lash of the wind sweeps in from the iron seas.