1
Against the stone breakwater，
only an ominous1 lapping，
While the wind whines3 overhead，
Coming down from the mountain，
Whistling between the arbors， the winding4 terraces；
A thin whine2 of wires， a rattling5 and flapping of leaves，
And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against
the lamp pole.
Where have the people gone？
There is one light on the mountain.
2
Along the sea-wall， a steady sloshing of the swell6，
The waves not yet high， but even，
Coming closer and closer upon each other；
A fine fume7 of rain driving in from the sea，
Riddling8 the sand， like a wide spray of buckshot，
The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending，
Flicking9 the foam10 from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness.
A time to go home！
And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley11，
A cat runs from the wind as we do，
Between the whitening trees， up Santa Lucia，
Where the heavy door unlocks，
And our breath comes more easy，
Then a crack of thunder， and the black rain runs over us， over
The flat-roofed houses， coming down in gusts12， beating
The walls， the slatted windows， driving
The last watcher indoors， moving the cardplayers closer
To their cards， their anisette.
3
We creep to our bed， and its straw mattress13.
We wait； we listen.
The storm lulls14 off， then redoubles，
Bending the trees half-way down to the ground，
Shaking loose the last wizened15 oranges in the orchard16，
Flattening17 the limber carnations18.
A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb，
Running over the coverlet， down under the iron bedstead.
The bulb goes on and off， weakly.
Water roars into the cistern19.
We lie closer on the gritty pillow，
Breathing heavily， hoping
For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater，
The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell，
The sudden shudder20 as the jutting21 sea-cliff collapses22，
And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pine-tree.
