Song of the Storm-Swept Plain

The wind shrills forth

From the white cold North

Where the gates of the Storm-god are;

And ragged clouds,

Like mantling shrouds,

Engulf the last, dim star.

Through naked trees,

In low coulees,

The night-voice moans and sighs;

And sings of deep,

Warm cradled sleep,

With wind-crooned lullabies.

He stands alone

Where the storm’s weird tone

In mocking swells;

And the snow-sharp breath

Of cruel Death

The tales of its coming tells.

The frightened plaint

Of his sheep sound faint 

Then the choking wall of white -

Then is heard no more,

In the deep-toned roar,

Of the blinding, pathless night. 

No light nor guide, 

Save a mighty tide

Of mad fear drives him on;

'Till his cold-numbed form 

Grows strangely warm; 

And the strength of his limbs is gone. 

Through the storm and night

A strange, soft light

O'er the sleeping shepherd gleams;

And he hears the word

Of the Shepherd Lord

Called out from the bourne of dreams.

Come, leave the strife

Of your weary life;

Come unto Me and rest

From the night and cold,

To the sheltered fold,

By the hand of love caressed.

The storm shrieks on,

But its work is done -

A soul to its God has fled;

And the wild refrain

Of the wind-swept plain, 

Sings requiem for the dead. 

William D. Hodjkiss