Winds
The wind came crying from the East;
And blew the churchyard-grass aside
As if to read forgotten names,
It tossed the very altar-flames,
And like a mourning woman cried,
Whose sorrow will not be denied:
Then in the sea-caves sank and ceased.
The wind came singing from the West;
And through the formal gardens ranged,
And suddenly they all were changed.
He entered in the rose's breast,
Like any bee, and, murmuring there,
Sent a new music through the air:
Then, in mid-sweetness, fell to rest.
The wind came shouting from the North;
As some armed warrior might come forth
Eager to slay, or to be slain.
He tore the last leaves from the tree
And sped them shuddering o'er the plain;
He called to heel the angry sea,
And lashed it with his scourge of rain.
The wind came sighing from the South,
His hair a cloud, a rose his mouth;
His eyes beneath the level brows
Were shadowy as forest boughs;
His voice was like a song one hears
In childhood, lost for many years.
Heard first with laughter, last with tears.