O white wind, numbing the world

to a mask of suffering hate!

and thy goblin pipes have skirl’d

all night, at my broken gate.

O heart, be hidden and kept

in a half-light colour’d and warm,

and call on thy dreams that have slept

to charm thee from hate and harm.

They are gone, for I might not keep;

my sense is beaten and dinn’d:

there is no peace but a gray sleep

in the pause of the wind.

1906