It Blows!

[rejectomorph]

Rain began falling before dusk, and the wind rose soon after that. There could be another power outage here if this storm grows much more intense. Other than that threat, and the old leak that's sprung open again in the ceiling of the den, I'm enjoying the spectacle. At the moment the air feels too warm for the rain to turn to snow, so I'm likely to have the sound of rain at least, and maybe wind as well, all night. I probably won't get tired of it, but unless the power goes out and we lose the heat, the sounds might well lull me to sleep. I don't know if that's a good thing or not. Oh, what the hell. I'll just enjoy whatever it is while it lasts.



Sunday Verse

During Wind and Rain

by Thomas Hardy

        They sing their dearest songs—
	He, she, all of them—yea,
	Treble and tenor and bass,
		And one to play;
	With the candles mooning each face. . . .
		Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

	They clear the creeping moss—
	Elders and juniors—aye,
	Making the pathways neat
		And the garden gay;
	And they build a shady seat. . . .
		Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across.

	They are blithely breakfasting all—
	Men and maidens—yea,
	Under the summer tree,
		With a glimpse of the bay,
	While pet fowl come to knee. . . .
		Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

	They change to a high new house,
	He, she, all of them—aye,
	Clocks and carpets and chairs
		On the lawn all day,
	And brightest things that are theirs. . . .
		Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.