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Poetry of Amy Lowell
A Dome of Many-coloured Glass

March Evening

Blue through the window burns the twilight;
 Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.
Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,
 Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.

Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot
 Dents into pools where a foot has been.
Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not
 Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.

Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers
 Scattering wide at a stronger gust.
Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers
 Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.

Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,
 Wrapping the mists round her withering form,
Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
 Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.