Poems (May)/Winds
WINDS.
Came on the winter twilight—homeward steps Were hasty in the streets, the panes were blind With sudden frost, and curtains closely dropt, Shut out the bitter aspect of the storm, But not its voice. 'Twas said, "Oh desolate wind! What's like the wind for sadness?" Answered then One who, reclining by the fireside, basked With shaded eyelids in its ruddy light, "'Tis never sad to me—I love the winds,Free Arabs of the air, that have no home,But pitch their cloudy tents upon the brink Of Arctic azure, or through midnight skies Fantastic with auroras, side by side, With winged wild legions screaming sweep the poles, Tuning their hoarse throats to the bruit of waves. Were it my own to give or keep, at death, I would bequeath my soul to such a wind."
Light-spoken words, dropped in the storm's full pause, Forgotten ere its rise. Commit thy soul To the wild keeping of those vagrant winds? Those melancholy winds that gird the earth With sadness? Not the summer winds that lie Rocked bird-like in high branches, that fly fast Down the moist morning shadows, that tread soft Through the dim woods at even, that precede The silver columns of the marching rain Along the parched pale meadows. Summer winds 'Gainst whom no door is shut, that may come in,Refresh the sleeper, or with angels bear The soul from dead lips up into the blue Deep calm above. Light winds that may tread close Upon light footsteps, pluck the robe that shrines A form beloved, lift the bright floating hair,Touch brow and lip and cheek with love's full freedom, Fearless and unreproved.But, oh, to fly Bound to the flanks of such a desert steed, Its wolf pack howling after! Desolate nights,To be the restless thing that moaning pleads Under the windows, tampers with the locks, Breathes hard along the door-sill, like a hound That's shut out from his master, weeps, entreats,Shrieks, curses. By the fireside or the board, They would not know thy voice. Laughter and jests And sweet songs, faintly would come out to thee For answer. While the star-like tapers glanced From stair to stair, then stationary, limned Light flitting shapes upon the curtains drawn In the familiar chambers, then went out One by one, sudden, thou, lamenting still, Wouldst linger near, but when the last bright point Dropped into gloom, as one who crowds despair Close, like a robe, to his complaining lips, Into the churchyard stealing, thou wouldst seek Thy new-heaped grave, now difficult to find Under the thick white universal snow, And humbly pray the dead shape lying there For shelter in its heart and leave to drink Of that mysterious cup so freely given To brutes and the brute senses, but denied To the bright lordly spirit.