Octaves of the Wind

Sure, I was born mid blowing of a wind! 
For when wild Euros spreads his pinions white 
No bonds of flesh and blood my soul can bind 
From sweeping forth with him into the night. 
I know the wind's wild kisses: how they give 
Strength to the soul they touch, to die or live: 
And when the Norns my life's full skein have twined, 
I shall go forth mid blowing of a wind. 

There is like thee no prophet, rugged East! 
Thy runes they are on solemn Stonehenge writ 
Until the sun is dark, and Time has ceased, 
Not to be understanded of man's wit. 
I love thee, East, who shall love better none: 
Of thy few worshippers, behold me one! 
Meanwhile thy rough caresses make me brave 
Against the day thou blowest o'er my grave. 

There is like thee no victor, Viking East! 
Beside thine, Merlin's is no mighty name: 
Thou blowest — where is Agamemnon's fame, 
Where Dian's priestess and Apollo's priest? 
Thou hast laid all Dodona's oak-trees low, 
O'er Stonehenge, unafraid, the swallows go— - 
On Aztec shrines thy wings have quenched the fire: 
Because of thee the merchants weep for Tyre. 

The burden of dead ladies was the word 
The East wind vexed my dreams with yesterday: 
How Mahild's hair was coloured like ripe hay, 
And Aly's voice the sweetest ever heard — 
How lightly fell the feet of Berengere, 
How such a one was kind, and such was fair, 
And how the Dance of Death called friend and foe; 
And now they must be sought with last year's snow.