The Southwind in the tousled apple trees
And slumber flowing from their leafy gloom.
He wakened to the cottonwoods’ deep boom.
Black fury was the world. The northwest’s roar,
As of a surf upon a shipwreck shore,
Plunged high above him from the sheer bluff’s verge;
And, like the backward sucking of the surge,
Far fled the sobbing of the wild snow-spray.
Black blindness grew white blindness—and ‘twas day.
All being now seemed narrowed to a span