By A. L. Rowse (auth.)

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RowsE, Poems of a Decade 23 12. Winds at Gorran GoRRAN ScHooL, with a house for 'master' glued to it, stood strong and symmetrical, without beauty but not mean, triumphantly facing the wrong way. It might have looked south over the distant Gruda and the sea; but this advantage was forgone in favour of presenting a good face to the road. Master's room in school, the big room as we called it, caught the north wind while the closets at the back caught the sun. I have heard that Mr. Sylvanus Trevail, the architect, who designed many Cornish schools, committed suicide in the end; but whether out of remorse for his cold frontages I do not know.

When I was told the story of Jacob wrestling with God I saw him struggling to open our heavy front door in the wind. The wind streamed round us straight from everywhere. From whatever direction it blew it met house and swept on and round it like a sea-swirl over and around rocks. Winter gales were glorious. When the winds were really high, entering our house from the lanes was almost like getting into a beleaguered fortress. In the lanes we were protected by hedges. Then, tugging open our gate, we would advance a few yards in the shelter of the wall before running the gauntlet of the wind in the open garden.

The wild bents wane and wither In blasts whose breath bows hither Their grey-grown heads and thither, Unblest of rain or sun; The pale fierce heavens are crowded With shapes like dreams beclouded, As though the old year enshrouded Lay, long ere life were done. Full-charged with oldworld wonders, From dusk Tintagel thunders A note that smites and sunders The hard frore fields of air; A trumpet stormier-sounded That once from lists rebounded When strong men sense-confounded Fell thick in tourney there.

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