  I hear the low wind wash the softening snow, The low tide loiter down the shore. The night Full filled with April forecast, hath no light. The salt wave on the sedge-flat pulses slow. Through the hid furrows lisp in murmurous flow The thaw’s shy ministers; and hark! The height Of heaven grows weird and loud with unseen flight Of strong hosts prophesying as they go! High through the drenched and hollow night their wings Beat northward hard on winter’s trail. The sound Of their confused and solemn voices, borne Athwart the dark to their long Arctic morn, Comes with a sanction and an awe profound, A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things. |
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