Meditações - the sound of the eight o’clock bell

Address to A Child During A Boisterous Winter Evening

What way does the wind come? What way does he go?

He rides over the water, and over the snow,

Through wood, and through vale; and o’er rocky height,

Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;

He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;

But how he will come, and whither he goes,

There’s never a scholar in England knows.

 

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,

And ring a sharp ’larum; but, if you should look,

There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow,

Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,

And softer than if it were covered with silk.

Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock,

Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

— Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place?

Nothing but silence and empty space;

Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

 

As soon as ’tis daylight tomorrow, with me

You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see

That he has been there, and made a great rout,

And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;

Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig

That looked up at the sky so proud and big

All last summer, as well you know,

Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

 

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,

And growls as if he would fix his claws

Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle

Drive them down, like men in a battle:

– But let him range round; he does us no harm,

We build up the fire, we’re snug and warm;

Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light.

 

Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell,

Alas! ’tis the sound of the eight o’clock bell.

— Come, now we’ll to bed! and when we are there

He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

He may knock at the door — we’ll not let him in;

May drive at the windows — we’ll laugh at his din;

Let him seek his own home wherever it be;

Here’s a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

Dorothy Wordsworth