  Now these are the seven wind songs For Andrew Straton’s death, Blown through the reeds of the river, A sigh of the world’s last breath, Where the flickering red auroras Out on the dark sweet hills Follow all night through the forest The cry of the whip-poor-wills. For the meanings of life are many, But the purpose of love is one, Journeying, tarrying, lonely As the sea wind or the sun. IWind of the Northern land, Wind of the sea, No more his dearest hand Comes back to me. Wind of the Northern gloom, Wind of the sea, Wandering waifs of doom Feckless are we. Wind of the Northern land, Wind of the sea, I cannot understand How these things be. IIWind of the low red morn At the world’s end, Over the standing corn Whisper and bend. Then through the low red morn At the world’s end, Far out from sorrow’s bourne, Down glory’s trend, Tell the last years forlorn At the world’s end, Of my one peerless born Comrade and friend. IIIWind of the April stars, Wind of the dawn, Whether God nears or fars, He lived and shone. Wind of the April night, Wind of the dawn, No more my heart’s delight Bugles me on. Wind of the April rain, Wind of the dawn, Lull the old world from pain Till pain be gone. IVWind of the summer noon, Wind of the hills, Gently the hand of June Stays thee and stills. Far off, untouched by tears, Raptures or ills, Sleeps he a thousand years Out on the hills. Wind of the summer noon, Wind of the hills, Is the land fair and boon Whither he wills? VWind of the gulfs of night, Wind of the sea, Where the pale streamers light My world for me,— Breath of the wintry Norns, Frost-touch or sleep,— He whom my spirit mourns Deep beyond deep To the last void and dim Where ages stream— Is there no room for him In all this dream? VIWind of the outer waste, Threne of the outer world, Leash of the stars unlaced, Morning unfurled, Somewhere at God’s great need, I know not how, With the old strength and speed He is come now; Therefore my soul is glad With the old pride, Tho’ this small life is sad Here in my side. VIIWind of the driven snow, Wind of the sea, On a long trail and slow Farers are we. Wind of the Northern gloom, Wind of the sea, Shall I one day resume His love for me? Wind of the driven snow, Wind of the sea, Then shall thy vagrant know How these things be. These are the seven wind songs For Andrew Straton’s rest, From the hills of the Scarlet Hunter And the trail of the endless quest. The wells of the sunrise harken, They wait for a year and a day: Only the calm sure thrushes Fluting the world away! For the husk of life is sorrow; But the kernels of joy remain, Teeming and blind and eternal As the hill wind or the rain. |
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