Gilbert White

Here you will find the Poem On the Dark, Still, Dry Warm Weather of poet Gilbert White

On the Dark, Still, Dry Warm Weather

Th'imprison'd winds slumber within their caves 
Fast bound: the fickle vane, emblem of change, 
Wavers no more, long-settling to a point. 
All nature nodding seems compos'd: thick steams 
From land, from flood up-drawn, dimming the day, 
"Like a dark ceiling stand:" slow thro' the air 
Gossamer floats, or stretch'd from blade to blade 
The wavy net-work whitens all the field. 
Push'd by the weightier atmosphere, up springs 
The ponderous Mercury, from scale to scale 
Mounting, amidst the Torricellian tube. 
While high in air, and pois'd upon his wings 
Unseen, the soft, enamour'd wood-lark runs 
Thro' all his maze of melody; -- the brake 
Loud with the black-bird's bolder note resounds. 
Sooth'd by the genial warmth, the cawing rook 
Anticipates the spring, selects her mate, 
Haunts her tall nest-trees, and with sedulous care 
Repairs her wicker eyrie, tempest torn. 
The plough-man inly smiles to see upturn 
His mellow glebe, best pledge of future crop: 
With glee the gardener eyes his smoking beds: 
E'en pining sickness feels a short relief. 
The happy school-boy brings transported forth 
His long-forgotten scourge, and giddy gig: 
O'er the white paths he whirls the rolling hoop, 
Or triumphs in the dusty fields of taw. 
Not so the museful sage: -- abroad he walks 
Contemplative, if haply he may find 
What cause controuls the tempest's rage, or whence 
Amidst the savage season winter smiles. 
For days, for weeks, prevails the placid calm. 
At length some drops prelude a change: the sun 
With ray refracted bursts the parting gloom; 
When all the chequer'd sky is one bright glare. 
Mutters the wind at eve: th' horizon round 
With angry aspect scowls: down rush the showers, 
And float the delug'd paths, and miry fields.