A Sonnet

There is a wind that takes the heart of a man, A fresh wind in the latter days of spring, When hate and war and every evil thing That the wide arches of high Heaven span Seems dust, and less to be accounted than The omened touches of a passing wing: When Destiny, that calls himself a king, Goes all forgotten for the song of Pan: For why? Because the twittering of birds Is the best music that was ever sung, Because the voice of trees finds better words Than ever poet from his heartstrings wrung: Because all wisdom and all gramarye Are writ in fields, O very plain to see.