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,

{18}

And never doth he look behind, to see,

To feel, to understand the horror he

Hath worked. The breath—the robe of Destiny—

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