Doubtful—and—slow.
Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,
And the wind—breathes low.
Now—on the hills—I hear the thunder-mutter,
The wind—is gathering in the west.
The upturned leaves first whiten and flutter
Then droop—to a fitful rest.
Now leaps the wind on the sleepy marsh,
And tramples the grass with terrified feet.
The startled river turns leaden and harsh,