  decorative THE wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree. The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time, And lie a golden heap or fly away, As if the butterflies had left their wings Behind, when love's short summertime had gone, And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless, That you can hardly tell what formed that mould, And then the wind will shake and bend the tree, And twist its branches off, burst it asunder, Uproot the giant and bring low his head, Upheave the granite block round which the roots Had taken hold for countless centuries. On goes the wind! The corn is green and soft— Earth's wavy fur. It does but ripple lightly In childish laughter at the harmless fun That was a death-blow. But the sea awakes And frowns and foams and rises into anger So wild with wrath, and yet so powerless, As if a thousand chains had chained it down, To howl, to suffer, to rebel against The heartless merriment of stronger powers. On goes the wind, to shake the rock, to blow Into a flame, the wild incendiary, To feel, to understand the horror he Hath worked. The breath—the robe of Destiny— Sweeps on, sweeps past, and never lists that hell And heaven have awaked, in shrieking anguish, But blows the clouds away, laughs at the sun, And falls into unconscious, dreamless sleep. |
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