THE WIND.

The lithe wind races and sings

Over the grasses and wheat —

See the emerald floor as it springs

To the touch of invisible feet!

Ah, later, the fir and the pine

Shall stoop to its weightier tread,

As it tramps the thundering brine

Till it shudders and whitens in dread!

Breath of man! a glass of thine own

Is the wind on the land, on the sea —

Joy of life at thy touch!— full grown,

Destruction and death maybe!