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. 

The King of Peru
(Who was Emperor too)
Had a sort of a rhyme
Which was useful to know,
If he felt very shy
When a stranger came by,
Or they asked him the time
When his watch didn't go;
Or supposing he fell
(By mistake) down a well,
Or he tumbled when skating
And sat on his hat,
Or perhaps wasn't told,
Till his porridge was cold,
That his breakfast was waiting - 
Or something like that;
Oh, whenever the Emperor
Got in to a temper, or
Felt himself sulky or sad,
He would murmur and murmur,
Until he felt firmer,
This curious rhyme which he had:

Eight eights are sixty-four,
Multiply by seven.
When it's done,
Carry one
And take away eleven,
Nine nines are eighty-one
Multiply by three.
If it's more,
Carry four,
And then it's time for tea.

So whenever the Queen
Took his armour to clean,
And she didn't remember
To use any starch;
Or his birthday (in May)
Was a horrible day,
Being wet as November
And windy as March;
Or, if sitting in state
With the Wise and the Great,
He just happened to hiccup
While signing his name,
Or the Queen gave a cough,
When his crown tumbled off
As he bent down to pick up
A pen for the same;
Oh, whenever the Emperor
Got into a temper, or
Felt himself awkward and shy,
He would whisper and whisper,
Until he felt crisper,
This odd little rhyme to the sky:

Eight eights are eighty-one;
Multiply by seven.
If it's more,
Carry four,
And take away eleven.
Nine nines are sixty-four;
Multiply by three.
When it's done,
Carry one,
And then it's time for tea.