John Drinkwater


You fools behind the panes who peer
 At the strong black anger of the sky,
 Come out and feel the storm swing by,
Aye, take its blow on your lips, and hear
 The wind in the branches cry.

No. Leave us to the day's device,
 Draw to your blinds and take your ease,
 Grow peak'd in the face and crook'd in the knees;
Your sinews could not pay the price
 When the storm goes through the trees.