The March Storm

The winds are roaring through the trees,

     The great limbs weave and bend;

While sheets of rain slash window pane

And loosened blinds, relieved of strain,

     Go flying to their end.

The bright flames flicker on the hearth,

     The room is warm and fair;

I sit and hear the tempest drear

And draw my heavy blanket near,

     And tremble in my chair.

Old age can breast no storm like this,

     Each moment sees it rise;

The ocean’s war has come ashore

And sweeping everything before

     Goes shrieking to the skies.

But lark! What’s this? A tuneful note,

     A whistling boy goes by;

Red-cheeked and gay, dressed for the fray

Though blown about, he mends his way,

     No fear within his eye!

O, youth, O, age! O, weakness, strength;

     ‘Tis life’s unaltered way;

Old age is frail and dreads the gale,

It shivers when the storms assail,

     But youth pipes up a lay.

March 15, 1912