This house has been far out at sea all night, <br />The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, <br />Winds stampeding the fields under the window <br />Floundering black astride and blinding wet <br /> <br />Till day rose; then under an orange sky <br />The hills had new places, and wind wielded <br />Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, <br />Flexing like the lens of a mad eye. <br /> <br />At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as <br />The coal-house door. Once I looked up - <br />Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes <br />The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope, <br /> <br />The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace, <br />At any second to bang and vanish with a flap; <br />The wind flung a magpie away and a black- <br />Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house <br /> <br />Rang like some fine green goblet in the note <br />That any second would shatter it. Now deep <br />In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip <br />Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought, <br /> <br />Or each other. We watch the fire blazing, <br />And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on, <br />Seeing the window tremble to come in, <br />Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.<br /><br />Ted Hughes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wind/
