Dawn at the Rain’s Edge

The drowsy, friendly, comfortable creak
Of axles arguing and wet spokes gleaming,
When old empty tumbrels blunder dreaming, too sleepy to speak,
Blunder down the road in the rain dreaming.

And the house-lights rub at the shining dripping shadows
Over the windows; through the drenched silver willows;
everywhere:
In the sulphurous fluctuant marsh this side the steaming meadows
Where black weeds trouble the moon’s drowned hair.

There is a sudden fuss of draggled feathers and the swing Of
winds in a hissing burst of raindrops; then a cry Of color at the
hill’s rim; a strange bright glimmering;
And a lark talking madness in some corner of the sky.