The West Wind is an Indian brave

Who scours the Autumn's crest.

Dashing the forest down as a slave,

[Pg 52]

He tears the leaves from its limbs and weaves

A maelstrom for his breast.

Out of the night

Crying to fright

The earth he swoops to spoil—

There is furious scathe in the whirl of his wrath,

In his path

There is misery and moil.

The North Wind is a Viking—cold

And cruel, armed with death!

Born in the doomful deep of the old

Ice Sea that froze ere Ymir rose

From Niflheim's ebon breath.

And with him sail

Snow, Frost, and Hail,

Thanes mighty as their lord,

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