Page:The Poems of Henry Kendall (1920).djvu/107

 Is rich on the evergreen lands of the Sun,

There comes to this Cape

To this alien Shape,

As the waters beat in and the echoes troop forth,

The Wind of the North,

Euroclydon!

And the wilted thyme,

And the patches past

Of the nettles cast

In the drift of the rift, and the broken rime,

Are tumbled and blown

To every zone

With the famished glede, and the plovers thinned

By this fourfold Wind—

This Wind sublime!

On the wrinkled hills,

By starts and fits,

The wild Moon sits;

And the rindles fill and flash and fall

In the way of her light,

Through the straitened night,

When the sea-heralds clamour, and elves of the war,

In the torrents afar,

Hold festival!

From ridge to ridge

The polar fires

On the naked spires,

With a foreign splendour, flit and flow;

And clough and cave

And architrave

Have a blood-coloured glamour on roof and on wall,

Like a nether hall

In the hells below!

The dead, dry lips

Of the ledges, split

By the thunder fit

And the stress of the sprites of the forkèd flame,

Anon break out,

With a shriek and a shout,