The moorish days all black and numb.
Give me the trench coat and mercury days,
The dense gray days of a Bronte novel.
Give me a knife and a bag and a ladder
And I will, with the hilt of the knife,
Cut open the clouds and collect in my bag
The dark drum rumbles of these days.
And there they'll hide, until on some
Garish summer morning when we are all more
Austen than Hawthorne, I will pour out melancholy
Like a swarm and sting us back to sober.