Madison Julius Cawein

Clearing

Before the wind, with rain-drowned stocks,
The pleated crimson hollyhocks
        Are bending;
And, smouldering in the breaking brown,
Above the hills that edge the town,
        The day is ending.

The air is heavy with the damp;
And, one by one, each cottage lamp
        Is lighted;
Infrequent passers of the street
Stroll on or stop to talk or greet,
        Benighted.

I look beyond my city yard,
And watch the white moon struggling hard,
        Cloud-buried;
The wind is driving toward the east,
A wreck of pearl, all cracked and creased
        And serried.

At times the moon, erupting, streaks
Some long cloud; like Andean peaks
        That double
Horizon-vast volcano chains,
The earthquake scars with lava veins
        That bubble.

The wind that blows from out the hills
Is like a woman's touch that stills
        A sorrow:
The moon sits high with many a star
In the deep calm: and fair and far
        Abides to-morrow.