The dust-whorls rise and smoke along the road
That maps with milk-white lines the distant
Foreworn we are, we scarce know what we ail,
For lo! the withering Föhn-wind flies abroad;
The mountain packman who so lightly trod
Puts down his pack, uneasy slips his bale,
The mighty eagle’s spirit seems to fail,
From weary heights the avalanche casts his load.
With a chill sense of prisonment and fear
The heavy clouds drop down the hills, and near,
Now bitter cold, now fiery is the blast;
Leaves curl, flowers close, the roof-stones crash
Discomfortable loss is over all;
Comes sunshine and sweet rain! the Föhn is past.
(Sonnets in Switzerland and Italy, p. 40)