[Pg 45]

To the Wind

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.

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