UNTIDY Gale, who loudly speaks,
Oh, go and change those holey breeks
That seem as though they’ve swept the floor,
Nor quick return, I thee implore.
But if you’re cold to my request
May colder winds do all the rest –
My sighs, my grief, my tears proclaim
And speak in stronger notes my shame.
Still if you rest in mute disdain,
Mayhap you’ll sense a searing pain
From my lunged foot! O Torment, fly,
Or else you may most surely die!
6. 11. 1927