From the Rough Ways

This is a fearful night.
The cloud-wrack scuds
Hundreds of feet above us, on a blast
That shrieks of war.
Wind rips at mighty oaks
And threatens roof-tops cowering at their feet.
Men feel its fingers in their very souls
And barricade the entrance, lest the dog
Within, half-tamed, leap up at sound of roaring
To go ravaging upon their hearths.

We’ll have no truce with fear.
Yet here is danger
Such as might strangle more spirit than flesh...
 
Make us a silence, O creative Spirit!
Into our shaken chamber
Breathe a silence.
 
This is December.
 
We have a bitter need
To hear a young Child cry.
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