Still, though your skies may be the summer’s own,
Of all your moods I like the wildest best;
I love the wind and its mad, warring tone,
Its anger, and its yearning and unrest;
For in man’s soul there is an answering mood,
A passionate storm with wind and driving rain
All through a night—love by dull pain pursued,
Then days when skies are kind and blue again,—
Blue, but they shed their bitter, biting frost,
And the sun burns with but a mocking heat,