The wind rises; the trees are agitated.

Woods, that beat the wind with frantic

Gestures and drop darkly‘ round

Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic

Wildly on the rustling ground!

Is it tragic grief that saddens

Through your souls this autumn day?

Or the joy of death that gladdens

In exultance of decay?

Arrogant you lift defiant

Boughs against the moaning blast,

That, like some invisible giant,

Wrapped in tumult, thunders past.

Is it that in such insurgent

Fury tossed from tree to tree,

You would quench the fiercely urgent

Pangs of some old memory?

As in toil and violent action,

That still help them to forget,

Mortals drown the dark distraction

And insistence of regret.