A WINTER MOOD 219 



sound waves, left by the beating of the 

 ebbing ocean. Call to the sand reeds : 

 their slender pipes have grown shrill 

 and they whistle an answer; they are 

 hoarse, their fluting is over. 



Beat on the marshes; the tawny grass 

 flattens and does not rise behind you. 

 Puff through the lane and salt meadows 

 — at last you have raised evil spirits; 

 the ghosts of burr-marigolds, of avens, 

 tick- trefoil, and goose-grass, like brock- 

 en witches, rise, and following in 

 your wake, fasten hooked claws to the 

 hide of the cattle, burrowing deep in 

 their rough coats, and flying aloft on 

 winged broomsticks, make a tour of 

 perpetuation. Brush heaps are smoul- 

 dering by the fields' edges; circle 

 about, then, gray wind, until the flame 

 devours them. Labour all day, gray 

 wind, but when the sun goes down, 

 cloud-curtained, cease, and bid the 



