The Wind

“Wind of the East, if thou pass by the land where my loved ones dwell, I pray, The fullest of greetings bear to them from me, their lover, and say That I am the pledge of passion still.”--

FROM THE ARABIC.

The ways of the wind are eerie, And I love them all: The blithe, the mad, and the dreary, Spring, winter, and fall.

When it tells to the waiting crocus Its beak to show; And hangs on the wayside locust Bloom-bunches of snow.

When it comes like a balmy blessing From the musky wood, The half-grown roses caressing Till their cheeks burn blood.

When it roars in the autumn season, And whines with rain, Or sleet, like a mind without reason, Or a soul in pain.

When the woodways, once so spicy With bud and bloom, Are desolate, dead and icy As the icy tomb.

When the puffed owl, crouched and frowsy, In the hollow tree, Sobs, dolorous, cold, and drowsy, Its shuddering melody.

Then I love to sit in December Where the big hearth sings, And, dreaming, forget and remember A host of things.

And the wind--I hear how it strangles, And wails and sighs On the roof’s sharp, shivering angles That front the skies.

How it shouts and romps and tumbles In attics o’erhead; In the great-throated chimney rumbles, Then all at once falls dead;

Then comes like the footsteps stealing Of a child on the stair, Or a bent, old gentleman feeling His slippered way with care.

And my soul grows anxious-hearted For those once dear-- The long-lost loves, departed, In the wind draw near.

And I seem to see their faces-- Not one estranged-- In their old accustomed places Round the wide hearth ranged.

And the wind, that waits and poises Where the shadows sway, Seems their visionary voices Calling me far away.

Then I wake in tears and hear it Wailing outside my door,-- Or is it some wandering spirit Weeping upon the moor?