THE SIGN

There's not a soul on the square,

And the snow blows up like a sail,

Or dizzily drifts like a drunken man

Falling, before the gale.

And when the wind eddies it rifts

The snow that lies in drifts;

And it skims along the walk and sifts

In stairways, doorways all about

The steps of the church in an angry rout.

And one would think that a hungry hound

Was out in the cold for the sound.

But I do not seem to mind

The snow that makes one blind,

Nor the crying voice of the wind —

I hate to hear the creak of the sign

Of Harmon Whitney, attorney at law:

With its rhythmic monotone of awe.

And neither a moan nor yet a whine,

Nor a cry of pain — one can n't define

The sound of a creaking sign.

Especially if the sky be bleak,

And no one stirs however you seek,

And every time you hear it creak

You wonder why they leave it stay

When a man is buried and hidden away

Many a day!