It drizzled, but not even grasses

Would bend within the bag of storm;

Dust only gulped its rain in pellets,

The iron roof—in powder form.

The village did not hope for healing.

Deep as a swoon the poppies yearned

Among the rye in inflammation,

And God in fever tossed and turned.

In all the sleepless, universal,

The damp and orphaned latitude,

The signs and moans, their posts deserting,

Fled with the whirlwind in pursuit.

Behind them ran blind slanting raindrops

Hard on their heels, and by the fence

The wind and dripping branches argued—

My heart stood still—at my expense.

I felt this dreadful garden chatter

Would last forever, since the street

Would also notice me, and mutter

With bushes, rain and window shutter.

No way to challenge my defeat—

They’d argue, talk me off my feet.