THE WIND
The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose notePiped on amid the stubble melodiesOf such appeal as ’scape the limber throatOf robin singing under saffron skies;—Then did he breathe like winding of a horn,Whereat some sable flock of clouds affrightedHuddled across their rosy pasturageBehind the troubled leaves,—Larger he loomed, a traveller benighted,Hinting of menace and insurgent rageAround the placid twilight of our eaves.The sun was gone; beneath the steady starsThat watched the spectral anticks of the oakThe plumèd elm-tops met in savage wars,The smitten pools in argent splinters broke;While, as a labourer among the boughsCudgels a harvest from the branches crooked,Within the orchard fence one plied a flailThat woke the sleeping house,Till from the shivered lattice faces lookedWhitely, because the apples fell like hail.The sun uprose, serenely gold and fair,And Morning in a little ruffled pondScanned her sweet face and prinkt her yellow hair.Around her mirror lapped the leaves, beyondJetsam of mast and acorn hid the strand,Thick in the orchard was the wreckage piledOf twig and fruit, the pitifullest noiseOf sobbing filled the land:—The wind was sleeping sadly as a childLittered about by all its broken toys.
The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose notePiped on amid the stubble melodiesOf such appeal as ’scape the limber throatOf robin singing under saffron skies;—Then did he breathe like winding of a horn,Whereat some sable flock of clouds affrightedHuddled across their rosy pasturageBehind the troubled leaves,—Larger he loomed, a traveller benighted,Hinting of menace and insurgent rageAround the placid twilight of our eaves.The sun was gone; beneath the steady starsThat watched the spectral anticks of the oakThe plumèd elm-tops met in savage wars,The smitten pools in argent splinters broke;While, as a labourer among the boughsCudgels a harvest from the branches crooked,Within the orchard fence one plied a flailThat woke the sleeping house,Till from the shivered lattice faces lookedWhitely, because the apples fell like hail.The sun uprose, serenely gold and fair,And Morning in a little ruffled pondScanned her sweet face and prinkt her yellow hair.Around her mirror lapped the leaves, beyondJetsam of mast and acorn hid the strand,Thick in the orchard was the wreckage piledOf twig and fruit, the pitifullest noiseOf sobbing filled the land:—The wind was sleeping sadly as a childLittered about by all its broken toys.
The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose notePiped on amid the stubble melodiesOf such appeal as ’scape the limber throatOf robin singing under saffron skies;—Then did he breathe like winding of a horn,Whereat some sable flock of clouds affrightedHuddled across their rosy pasturageBehind the troubled leaves,—Larger he loomed, a traveller benighted,Hinting of menace and insurgent rageAround the placid twilight of our eaves.
The sun was gone; beneath the steady starsThat watched the spectral anticks of the oakThe plumèd elm-tops met in savage wars,The smitten pools in argent splinters broke;While, as a labourer among the boughsCudgels a harvest from the branches crooked,Within the orchard fence one plied a flailThat woke the sleeping house,Till from the shivered lattice faces lookedWhitely, because the apples fell like hail.
The sun uprose, serenely gold and fair,And Morning in a little ruffled pondScanned her sweet face and prinkt her yellow hair.Around her mirror lapped the leaves, beyondJetsam of mast and acorn hid the strand,Thick in the orchard was the wreckage piledOf twig and fruit, the pitifullest noiseOf sobbing filled the land:—The wind was sleeping sadly as a childLittered about by all its broken toys.