The clouds blown together, like ragged whorls of smoke, Stretch long and twisted fingers up in the west: And in their grip hangs weltering, half extinguished, The ruby of the sun. The wind like a cripple rolls over dark purple moors; And in the hollows the old bare beeches sing A ballad of winter, while in their dry, stirring leaves A frightened squirrel scurries off in dismay. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW TO BE A POET (TO REMIND MYSELF) by WENDELL BERRY MY MOTHER LEFT ME by KAREN SWENSON LEAVING THE HARBOR by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE LAST WISH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON EXTEMPORE ON BEING SHOWN SHOE BUCKLES WORN BY DAVID GARRICK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE PRINCE OF PEACE by EDWARD HENRY BICKERSTETH |