Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea’s side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as the talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words. Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park. Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water’s speeches Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour’s word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disc, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the clock. Some let me make you of the meadow’s sings: The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye. Some let me tell you the raven’s sins. Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make you of the heartless words, The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury. By the sea’s side hear the dark-vowelled birds