THE WIND.

The ways of the wind are eerie

And I love them all,

The blithe, the mad, and the dreary,

Spring, Winter, and Fall.

When it tells to the waiting crocus

Its beak to show,

And hangs on the wayside locust

Bloom-bunches of snow.

When it comes like a balmy blessing

From the musky wood,

The half-grown roses caressing

Till their cheeks show blood.

When it roars in the Autumn season,

And whines with rain

Or sleet like a mind without reason,

Or a soul in pain.

When the wood-ways once so spicy

With bud and bloom

Are desolate, sear, and icy

As the icy tomb.

When the wild owl crouched and frowsy

In the rotten tree

Wails dolorous, cold, and drowsy,

His shuddering melody.

Then I love to sit in December

Where the big hearth sings,

And dreaming forget and remember

A host of things.

And the wind — I hear how it strangles

And gasps and sighs

On the roof's sharp, shivering angles

That front the skies.

How it groans and romps and tumbles

In attics o'erhead,

In the great-throated chimney rumbles,

Then all at once falls dead;

Till it comes like footsteps slipping

Of a child on the stair,

Or a quaint old gentleman tripping

With heavily powdered hair.

And my soul grows anxious hearted

For those once dear —

The long-lost loves departed

In the wind draw near.

And I seem to see their faces,

Not one estranged,

In their old accustomed places

‘ Round the wide hearth ranged.

And the wind that waits and poises

Where the shadows sway

Makes their visionary voices

Seem calling me far away.

And I wake in tears to listen

Again to the sobbing wind,

Far out on the lands that glisten,

Like the voice of one who sinned.