  Wind, wind, Do you whisper eerie sonnets to the moon As it rises white and sickled? Do you croon Silver-coloured ditties pale and low As you rock the cedar branches too and fro? Do you sing to woo the bat, Is it that, is it that? Have you tunes for such a sullen little wraith, Half dream, swooping high, scarcely seen, chiefly faith? Would you hold a phantom to your breast As you murmur gently love-notes from the west? Wind, wind, Every tree is but a harp for your desire, Every leaf a mellow string to swell your choir, Every grass a cooing reed At your need, for your need, Drums and clashing cymbals of the sea Boom a pÆan, hurl a flood of melody. Wind, wind, Men have snatched an air or two Of a fantasy from you And have prisoned them in books to make them stay, Scattered fragments that your lips have blown this way. They are caged and tied to paper in a stave. Do you mind, Oh Wind? But you laugh and troll out gaily on your way, "Keep the fragments, little earth-men, dance and play, 'Tis a dainty roundelay, Hold it, pray; hold it, pray. For myself, my breath is fierce, myself am great, For my tiny fallen airs I dare not wait; Storms beneath my rushing wings unfurled Roll the symphonies which dominate the world." |
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