THE WIND’S GRIEF
The wind is grieving. Over what old woe
Howls it as though
Its very heart would break?—
The roving wind who merrily did make
A song all day in woods and meadows gay
Grieves in the night.
Is it for olden evil it hath done
’Neath moon and sun
Since first it roved the world?
Brave trees uprooted, ships and sailors hurled
To stormy death? or for the passing breath
Of flowers bright?