Classic Poem

I HEAR the north wind plunging to a goal
That he knows not, —
The formless one, the nameless one, the unforgot,
Beyond the arctic or antarctic pole.
I hear him howling anger up the night
Because a windowpane arrests his flight
With form, and, manifest, the journey breaks.
A stream, a cliff, a branchy wood he makes,
Clanging his wings in anger at the sight,
Detained from warfare with the infinite;
In anger and in terror from the spot
Flies to the formless one, flies to the nameless one, the unforgot,
Lessening along the night
To what is not.