Storm

Half across the little town
  The curdled spray is shot in clouts,
Yet, meshed in unseen nets of rain
  That the east wind lets slack or routs,
Now it hammers the window-pane,
  And now only the shutters are shaken,
And now the old, old lady without
  Stirs in her sleep as though she would waken.

We might be in a bubble of wine
  Here together above the sea,
With table spread and lamp ashine
  And my head resting on your knee;

And all things I would do undone,
  And all things I would speak unspoken,
And a ship battling up from Wales
  With her keel beat flat and her bows broken.

Storm without and peace within
  Is enchantment, so be still;
Or turn from thoughtless word to word
That finds no echo in the will;
Or look out through the film of gold
  That hypnotised desire has drawn
Around us in the night, and speak
  Of calm as ’twere a thing forgone.

And say, on the beach water and stone
  Make their maddening cymbal-clap
And drown, thank Heaven, our neighbour's fiddle;
  The cat that leaps into her lap
Wakes the old cantankerous lady,
  Who scolds and calls him “Antichrist”;
And gossips scandalised by our conduct
  Flit drenched from door to door like mice.

Irish Statesman 1928-02-18