YESTERDAY

The winds are out to-night, Strange winds, blown from a far-off troublous sea, Rending the sky over the chimney pots, Into a writhing web of jade and pearl— And lashing my sedate black London trees All into wonder and a breathless maze. I wonder if you hear? From your still bed under the Flanders soil, I wonder if you know the winds are out? For, if you do, I know across your sleep There comes the dream that’s tugging at my heart Alone here with the lamplight and the fire, And the day dying over London roofs: The thin white road Leaping between the fenlands, where the sky Swoops down to meet the fields, the flat brown fields, With never a hill’s curve, only poplar boughs Like spires out of the mist at the day’s edge. And all the mad winds of the world full cry Careering through the dusk into the town. And down the narrow streets, Under the gray towers and serene gray walls, Under the yellowing elms along the Backs, The winds went rollicking and dancing still; Swaying the chain of lights down King’s Parade And driving purple cloud-wrack down the sky Running red flame behind the spires of King’s. And so they came to us Beating with wild wings in the court below, Rocking the room, breaking the fire in gusts, Filled with the spice of dead leaves and wet boughs, Just as they come to me, alone, to-night. ... My dear, they say they will rebuild the world Out of the soil where you and yours lie dead; But not, I think, the free, the careless hours That knew no shadow of purpose, but were glad, When the glad winds raced under Cambridge walls.