Explore "The Last Storm" by Francis Sherman on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
From north, from east, the strong wind hurries down / Against the window-pane the sleet rings fast; / The moon hath hid her face away, aghast, / And darkness keeps each corner of the town.
The garden hedges wear a heavy crown, / And the old poplars shriek, as night drifts past, / That, leagues on desolate leagues away, at last / One comes to know he too must surely drown.
And yet at noon, to-morrow, when I go / Out to the white, white edges of the plain, / I shall not grieve for this night's hurricane, / Seeing how, in a little hollow, sinks the snow / Around the southmost tree, where a lean crow / Sits noisily impatient for the rain.