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.