Vii

The wind rises; the trees are agitated:

Woods that beat the wind with frantic Gestures and sow darkly round Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic Wildly on the rustling ground,

Is it tragic grief that saddens Through your souls this autumn day? Or the joy of death that gladdens In exultance of decay?

Arrogant you lift defiant Boughs against the moaning blast, That, like some invisible giant, Wrapped in tumult, thunders past.

Is it that in such insurgent Fury, tossed from tree to tree, You would quench the fiercely urgent Pangs of some old memory?

As in toil and violent action, That still help them to forget, Mortals drown the dark distraction And insistence of regret.