Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
the spider-tongued, and the loud hills 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.