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 vind—
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'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 let it stay
When a man is buried and hidden away,
Many a day!