WINDS.
Came on the winter twilight—homeward steps
Were hasty in the streets, the panes were blind
With sudden frost, and curtains closely dropt,
Shut out the bitter aspect of the storm,
But not its voice. 'Twas said, "Oh desolate wind!
What's like the wind for sadness?" Answered then
One who, reclining by the fireside, basked
With shaded eyelids in its ruddy light,
"'Tis never sad to me—I love the winds,
Free Arabs of the air, that have no home,
But pitch their cloudy tents upon the brink
Of Arctic azure, or through midnight skies
Were hasty in the streets, the panes were blind
With sudden frost, and curtains closely dropt,
Shut out the bitter aspect of the storm,
But not its voice. 'Twas said, "Oh desolate wind!
What's like the wind for sadness?" Answered then
One who, reclining by the fireside, basked
With shaded eyelids in its ruddy light,
"'Tis never sad to me—I love the winds,
Free Arabs of the air, that have no home,
But pitch their cloudy tents upon the brink
Of Arctic azure, or through midnight skies
