Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/56

 Ah—hush! What moved? What’s all that sudden rush Of something white—can those be lambs? They glimmer ’mid their scarce-seen dams Like baby-ghosts. . . . And now a warm Sweet whiff of hay. . . the half-way farm Must be at hand; but where’s the light? Ah, there. . . . And now ’tis past. The night Is on us. The black world around Lies steep’d in loneliness profound. We plod a mile, and do not speak.

. . . A stinging scud of rain! And bleak And bleaker comes the wind, with whirls That choke one, and wild whoops and skirls Worrying one mad. . . . How foolish! Yet You, too, begin to whine and fret, Rover! What is it? Just the storm? Or can you scent some fiendish form