The red curtain moving in the still room
is frightening in portent to me housed.
The heart, in its choice cage of ribs, pounds
as if the air, which was a hurricane
all up the dangerous Atlantic coast
with gross waves and accumulative clouds,
has petered out into an indoor draught
telling the officed brain, high up inside
the dead air of its hairy capitol dome
but sensitive as a bat to every draught,
that revolutionary storms are happening down there!
to move the red curtain in the still room.