Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Wolverine WinterPaul F. Sifton
T
Over the Lake hung snow-clouds—piling,
Wheeling for the signal—for the signal
Of the lake gods coming to battle!
Sniffing at the air and frowning at the sky;
Peering out to westward, muttering to their Pard—
To their Pard, the surf seeping high.
Stripped naked, cruel as a bloodless sword!
I cleaned out the chimney and doubled my quilts.
Then I phoned in to town and bid my pals adieu.
We cursed at the weather; promised our God a prayer.
Like a weasel was sneaking down the shore.
I could see it twisting and writhing round the Point,
Round Little Sauble Point, where the pines and spruces
Whine in a gale like the over-taut string of a viol.
Fretting the pitching waves to frothy frenzies:
Catching their boiling crests in a creamy ice:
And where it passed the moisture was turned to snow.
Snarled at the Land; froze the West Coast dead!