The Tremor Poem by Narayan Hore

Night is come- perfectly stealthy, and quiet,
The owl's screech- hurriedly haughty, heard low,
What heaved air, mystery profound- staunch breasts
At fronts bleak- aloofing sighs, furred wings
On leafed birch- asteroidal calm, the waves
Look ablute. No breathing shiver - The stead,
A pull felt of cosmic genus; a quake
Of breadth mild-of sensation huge-only
The lone shake, a parochial flaw, one second
Had seemed full journeys thirty Hell bound.
Calm fast came, no damage touching, but one
The poet's stare-that absorbed vision-she'd gone.