That wolf, shivering by the palisade, nosed the footprints of a hard winter, grew thin. The Indians are fighting drunk. The Frenchmen keep the squaws. "How I long to be in Normandy. The carriages are waiting at the door. The ladies lie in laces at the fête, @3Festin à tout manger@1 to gobble up the choicest viands of the @3cuisinier,"@1 the water murmured, beating its breasts shapelessly on the shore. A cold agony kept pace with the storm, keeping the temper of the waves leashed, towering with destination in the northeast, beating away warm blood from the heart's core, checking the arteries, clogging the burden of the veins, congealing stagnant lusts in an inland pool. Animalculae shrivel and die in their sacks. The beaver cowers in his dam. The caribou snorts frostily. Hoofs clatter on the ice-pack. The rampikes of the forest attain a brittle silence. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNET: 9 by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY WITH MY CIGAR by JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY TWO GRANDMOTHERS by IRENE ARCHER EXPECTATION by GLADYS BRIERLY ASHOUR HERMOTIMUS by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE TRIUMPHS OF THY CONQUERING POWER by WILLIAM HILEY BATHURST |