WIND

The Wind bows down the poplar trees,

The Wind bows down the crested seas;

And he has bowed the heart of me

Under his hand of memory.

O heavy-handed Wind, who goes

Hurting the petals of the rose;

Who leaves the grasses on the hill

Broken and pallid, spent and still!

O heavy-handed Wind, who brings

To me all echoing ancient things:

Echoing sorrow and defeat,

Crying like mourners, hard to meet!

The Wind bows down the poplar trees

And all the ocean’s argosies;

But deeper bends the heart of me,

Under his hand of memory.

Harper’s Fannie Stearns Davis