A Song of Four Winds

The gray wind out of the West 
Is sighing and making moan, 
For a noinin's silver crest 
In the hay-swathes overthrown. 
Like the heart in a dying breast, 
It flutters, making its moan, 
The gray wind out of the West. 

The black wind out of the North 
Blows loud, like a cry of war: 
Its voice goes gallantly forth 
In fields where the spearsmen are: 
To them is its voice not worth 
Wild music of any star? 
The black wind out of the North. 

The white wind out of the South, 
It makes not for war nor peace: 
'Tis the breath of a colleen's mouth, 
Yet it flutters the willow-trees: 
It burns men's souls with drouth, 
Then fills their souls with ease: 
The white wind out of the South. 

The red wind out of the East — 
What word can a harper say 
Of the wind that blows from the feast, 
And blows men into the fray: 
It will not stay for the priest, 
For the Host it will not stay — 
The red wind blowing out of the East, 
The wind of the Judgment Day.