A CORNER OF THE QUAY
“When the wind sulks, and the dune dries,
The old salts with uneasy eyes
Hour after hour peer at the skies.
“All are silent; their hands turning,
A brown juice from their lips they wipe;
Never a sound save, in their pipe,
The dry tobacco burning.
“That storm the almanac announces,
Where is it? They are puzzled.