Poetry Archives

Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown,
  With restless drift, scarce broken now of any,
  Out of the dark thy windows dim and many
Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none,
Save evermore the fierce wind’s sweep and moan,
  From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken
  In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken,
Dense as night’s darkness round they towers of stone.

Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden;
    More dark and strange thy veiled agony,
City of storm, in whose grey heart are hidden
  What stormier woes, what lives that groan and beat,
  Stern and thin-cheeked, against time’s heavier sleet,
    Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty.