FITZGERALD, Robert


Winter Night

The grey day left the dusk in doubt,

Now it is dark.

Nightfall and no stars are out,

But this black wind will set its mark

Like anger on the souls that stir

From chimney side or sepulcher.

From hill to pasture moans the snow.

The farms hug tight

Their shaking ribs against the blow.

There is no mercy in this night

Nor scruple to its wrath. The dead

Sleep light this wind being overhead.