23. The Bus Shelter

 

A whirl-blast came in from the Lake,
Rushed through Queen’s Quay with deadly force,
Then all at once the winds forsake,
And steady snowflakes made their course.
Where skyscrapers seem to welter,
I sit within this bus shelter,
Of plexiglass and yellow steel,
And quite at home it makes me feel,
From year to year the concrete floor,
With heavy boots was trampled o’er,
You could not with five men abreast,
Close shut the lid upon this chest,
But see! Howsoever snowflakes fly,
This shelter proves to keep me dry,
There’s still a breeze – a breath of air –
Yet here, and there, I’ve huddled where,
Against one wall, upon a seat,
And face my eyes into the street,
Amid the Lakeshore and the snow,
Then turn my collar to the cold,
Then stick my arms within the fold,
However much the storm does grow,
Is pleasure found in lying low.

O Heaven! Grant when out of doors,
That pleasure does not truly part,
And even as the whirl-blast soars,
I find contentment in my heart.