RAIN at Muchalat, rain at Sooke, <br />And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena, <br />And the skid-roads blind, and never a look <br />Of the Coast Range blue over Malaspina, <br />And west winds keener <br />Than jack-knife blades, <br />And rocks grown greener <br />With the long drip-drip from the cedar shades <br />On the drenched deep soil where the footsteps suck, <br />And the camp half-closed and the pay-roll leaner,– <br />Say, little horse, shall we hunt our luck? <br /> <br />Yet. . . I don't know. . . there's an hour at night <br />When the clouds break and the stars are turning <br />A thousand points of diamond light <br />Through the old snags of the cedar-burning, <br />And the west wind's spurning <br />A hundred highlands, <br />And the frost-moon's learning <br />The white fog-ways of the outer islands, <br />And the shallows are dark with the sleeping duck, <br />And life's a wonder for our discerning,– <br />Say, little horse, shall we wait our luck?<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-winter-comes-3/
