Wind

The Wind is a black-winged beast tonight. I toss and shudder and long for light. Oh cruel talons that grasp with might My casement window — how frail it seems — How it opened once to the moonlight gleams, Rustle of leaves and the tiptoe dreams — But now it is shutting a wild Thing out — A winged beast in a mad death rout — (Oh the great, black wings on-rushing!)

Was it the Wind that yesterday Crooned so soft in the bent sea-pine? Touching my lips like a pungent wine, On the cliff top there, with the lichened turf (Marriage of sea and of rich, brown earth). Bayberry bushes of frosted green Guarded that tryst of a king and queen. Sun-warmed strawberries formed the feast — (Ah-h-h ! The rush of that black-winged Beast !) Yet I remember the Wind that day Tore rose petals in wanton play. . . .

Yesterday was long years ago And my own true Love was there.