CWT #133: Poetry break(?!): 'Retreats of the robust'

Poem! Retreats of the robust, Who have made their makeshift homes among the boulders And the deep shadows of the chaparral fronds. April is the cruelest month: Wind, dust, and blight, April is alone. In silence to a country house near, Where the aged servants live still, And sit without, through the endless night, Though the grass grow soughing under our feet, Until some sparrow-bells start to peal, Or the owls begin their rusty wail, Which long notes draw out into long tones, In the solitude of night.