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
Fantastic with auroras, side by side,
With winged wild legions screaming sweep the poles,
Tuning their hoarse throats to the bruit of waves.
Were it my own to give or keep, at death,
I would bequeath my soul to such a wind."
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
Fantastic with auroras, side by side,
With winged wild legions screaming sweep the poles,
Tuning their hoarse throats to the bruit of waves.
Were it my own to give or keep, at death,
I would bequeath my soul to such a wind."
Light-spoken words, dropped in the storm's full pause,
Forgotten ere its rise.
Commit thy soul
To the wild keeping of those vagrant winds?
Those melancholy winds that gird the earth
With sadness?
Not the summer winds that lie
Rocked bird-like in high branches, that fly fast
Down the moist morning shadows, that tread soft
Through the dim woods at even, that precede
The silver columns of the marching rain
Along the parched pale meadows. Summer winds
'Gainst whom no door is shut, that may come in,
Refresh the sleeper, or with angels bear
The soul from dead lips up into the blue
Deep calm above. Light winds that may tread close
Upon light footsteps, pluck the robe that shrines
A form beloved, lift the bright floating hair,
Touch brow and lip and cheek with love's full freedom,
Fearless and unreproved.
But, oh, to fly
Bound to the flanks of such a desert steed,
Its wolf pack howling after! Desolate nights,
To be the restless thing that moaning pleads
Under the windows, tampers with the locks,
Breathes hard along the door-sill, like a hound
That's shut out from his master, weeps, entreats,
Shrieks, curses. By the fireside or the board,
They would not know thy voice. Laughter and jests
And sweet songs, faintly would come out to thee
For answer. While the star-like tapers glanced
From stair to stair, then stationary, limned
Light flitting shapes upon the curtains drawn
In the familiar chambers, then went out
One by one, sudden, thou, lamenting still,
Wouldst linger near, but when the last bright point
Dropped into gloom, as one who crowds despair
Close, like a robe, to his complaining lips,
Into the churchyard stealing, thou wouldst seek
Thy new-heaped grave, now difficult to find
Under the thick white universal snow,
And humbly pray the dead shape lying there
For shelter in its heart and leave to drink
Of that mysterious cup so freely given
To brutes and the brute senses, but denied
To the bright lordly spirit.
Forgotten ere its rise.
Commit thy soul
To the wild keeping of those vagrant winds?
Those melancholy winds that gird the earth
With sadness?
Not the summer winds that lie
Rocked bird-like in high branches, that fly fast
Down the moist morning shadows, that tread soft
Through the dim woods at even, that precede
The silver columns of the marching rain
Along the parched pale meadows. Summer winds
'Gainst whom no door is shut, that may come in,
Refresh the sleeper, or with angels bear
The soul from dead lips up into the blue
Deep calm above. Light winds that may tread close
Upon light footsteps, pluck the robe that shrines
A form beloved, lift the bright floating hair,
Touch brow and lip and cheek with love's full freedom,
Fearless and unreproved.
But, oh, to fly
Bound to the flanks of such a desert steed,
Its wolf pack howling after! Desolate nights,
To be the restless thing that moaning pleads
Under the windows, tampers with the locks,
Breathes hard along the door-sill, like a hound
That's shut out from his master, weeps, entreats,
Shrieks, curses. By the fireside or the board,
They would not know thy voice. Laughter and jests
And sweet songs, faintly would come out to thee
For answer. While the star-like tapers glanced
From stair to stair, then stationary, limned
Light flitting shapes upon the curtains drawn
In the familiar chambers, then went out
One by one, sudden, thou, lamenting still,
Wouldst linger near, but when the last bright point
Dropped into gloom, as one who crowds despair
Close, like a robe, to his complaining lips,
Into the churchyard stealing, thou wouldst seek
Thy new-heaped grave, now difficult to find
Under the thick white universal snow,
And humbly pray the dead shape lying there
For shelter in its heart and leave to drink
Of that mysterious cup so freely given
To brutes and the brute senses, but denied
To the bright lordly spirit.