The Wind

The wind! The wind! The great wind from the sea! O little roses—you are doomed to pass! And you will go as he did—suddenly;— You will be broken—tossed upon the grass. I cannot save you. I who love you well. Not sun, nor moon, nor stars can bring you aid; For roses, as for us, the passing bell, The wind we meet, afraid, or unafraid. But yet, the wind, that far and wide is led By nothing—nothing but God's mighty hand, Says sometimes, as with words, "Be comforted;" My sweet! My sweet!—Nor try to understand— For only One knows why the four winds blow, Or why the new-blown roses needs must go.