Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The HurricaneBaker Brownell
T
Acid of a narrow rain
Pitted the sentries’ paces
With spits of cold.
With the night’s age,
Until the night was wind,
And darkness spouted on the prone earth
From the West’s nozzle.
Like mated beasts,
Pressed huge bodies
On the bulging walls
Of tied Sibley tents.
Pulled with a souseling kiss
From the rain-weak earth.
Jumped; the tent heaved,
Bulged upward
With scared awkwardness,
And fell on a broken tripod.
With huge onwardness,
West, south, east, north, poured itself
Bitterly on the flat earth.
Tied into their ponchos,
Pried through the heaving night
Like tired swimmers.