He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around,
Now high in the air, and now low on the ground,
He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee,
Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he,
Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shed
Where a widow was praying for daily bread,
In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild,
She prayed for food for her starving child:
Then the wind bowed down with its burden there,
And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer.