Wind Poems | DiscoverPoetry.com

Who Has Seen the Wind?

by Christina Rossetti

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

The Wind

by Robert Louis Stevenson

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I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!

The Wind's Song

by Gabriel Setoun

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O winds that blow across the sea,
What is the story that you bring?
Leaves clap their hands on every tree
And birds about their branches sing.

You sing to flowers and trees and birds
Your sea-songs over all the land.
Could you not stay and whisper words
A little child might understand?

The roses nod to hear you sing;
But though I listen all the day,
You never tell me anything
Of father's ship so far away.

Its masts are taller than the trees;
Its sails are silver in the sun;
There's not a ship upon the seas
So beautiful as father's one.

With wings spread out it flies so fast
It leaves the waves all white with foam.
Just whisper to me, blowing past,
If you have seen it sailing home.

I feel your breath upon my cheek,
And in my hair, and on my brow.
Dear winds, if you could only speak,
I know that you would tell me now.

My father's coming home, you'd say,
With precious presents, one, two, three;
A shawl for mother, beads for May,
And eggs and shells for Rob and me.

The winds sing songs where'er they roam;
The leaves all clap their little hands;
For father's ship is coming home
With wondrous things from foreign lands.

The Wind and the Moon

by George Macdonald

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Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out;
You stare
In the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about—
I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep
On a heap
Of clouds to sleep,
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high
In the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge,
And my wedge,
I have knocked off her edge!
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff
More's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.
In the air
Nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone—
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more;
On down,
In town,
Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar—
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;
But in vain
Was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew—till she filled the night,
And shone
On her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath,
Good faith!
I blew her to death—
First blew her away right out of the sky—
Then blew her in; what strength have I!

But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair;
For high
In the sky,
With her one white eye,
Motionless, miles above the air,
She had never heard the great Wind blare.

"Who Has Seen the Wind?"

by Christina Georgina Rossetti

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Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

The Fall Wind

by John Stuart Thompson

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The wind has stalked adown the garden path,
And blown the lights of all the poor flowers out;
From maple wood I hear his stormy shout;
The russet leaves take flight before his wrath;
In stubble fields and clover-aftermath,
The wreckage of the year is strewn around;
The mottled asters lie upon the ground.
Of all the bloom, the tyrant north wind hath

Left only golden-rod, in saffron rows,—
And these, with bulging cheeks, he blows and blows,
Until they glow, and mingle with the west,
When setting suns lean low upon the land,
And songless birds, in cheerless plumage dressed.
Wing south or somewhere; mute, discouraged band.

The Winds

by Hannah Flagg Gould

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We come! we come! and ye feel our might,
As we're hastening on in our boundless flight,
And over the mountains, and over the deep,
Our broad, invisible pinions sweep
Like the spirit of liberty, wild and free!
And ye look on our works, and own 't is we;
Ye call us the Winds; but can ye tell
Whither we go, or where we dwell?

Ye mark, as we vary our forms of power,
And fell the forests, or fan the flower,
When the hare-bell moves, and the rush is bent,
When the tower's o'erthrown, and the oak is rent,
As we waft the bark o'er the slumbering wave,
Or, hurry its crew to a watery grave;
And ye say it is we! but can ye trace
The wandering winds to their secret place?

And, whether our breath be loud and high,
Or come in a soft and balmy sigh;
Our threatenings fill the soul with fear,
Or our gentle whisperings woo the ear.
With music aerial, still, 't is we.
And ye list, and ye look; but what do ye see?
Can ye hush one sound of our voice to peace,
Or waken one note, when our numbers cease?

Our dwelling is in the Almighty's hand;
We come and we go at his command.
Though joy or sorrow may mark our track,
His will is our guide, and we look not back:
And if, in our wrath, ye would turn us away,
Or win us in gentle airs to play,
Then, lift up our hearts to him who binds,
Or frees, as he will, the obedient Winds!

Forest Music

by Hannah Flagg Gould

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There's a sad loneliness about my heart,—
A deep, deep solitude the spirit feels
Amid this multitude. The things of art
Pall on the senses—from its pageantry,
Loathing, my eye turns off; and my ear shrinks
From the harsh dissonance that fills the air.

My soul is growing sick—I will away
And gather balm from a sweet forest walk!
There, as the breezes through the branches sweep,
Is heard aerial minstrelsy, like harps
Untouched, unseen, that on the spirit's ear
Pour out their numbers till they lull to peace
The tumult of the bosom. There's a voice
Of music in the rustling of the leaves;
And the green boughs are hung with living lutes,
Whose strings will only vibrate to his hand
Who made them, while they sound his untaught praise!

The whole wild wood is one vast instrument
Of thousand, thousand keys; and all its notes
Come in sweet harmony, while Nature plays
To celebrate the presence of her God!

Summer Wind

by William Cullen Bryant

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It is a sultry day; the sun has drank
The dew that lay upon the morning grass;
There is no rustling in the lofty elm
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint
And interrupted murmur of the bee,

Settling on the sick flowers, and then again
Instantly on the wing. The plants around
Feel the too potent fervours: the tall maize
Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,
Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven,—
Their bases on the mountains—their white tops
Shining in the far ether—fire the air
With a reflected radiance, and make turn
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind
That still delays its coming. Why so slow,
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth
Coolness and life. Is it that in his caves
He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,
The pine is bending his proud top, and now
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes!
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!
The deep distressful silence of the scene
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds
And universal motion. He is come,
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,
And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,
And sound of swaying branches, and the voice
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs
Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,
By the road-side and the borders of the brook,
Nod gaily to each other; glossy leaves
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew
Were on them yet, and silver waters break
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

To the Evening Wind

by William Cullen Bryant

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Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,
Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone—a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth, into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,
Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wide old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast:
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go—but the circle of eternal change,
Which is the life of nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

The West Wind

by William Cullen Bryant

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Beneath the forest's skirts I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the threaded foliage sigh.

Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of wo?
Is not thy home among the flowers?
Do not the bright June roses blow,
To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

And lo! thy glorious realm outspread—
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay,
And yon free hilltops, o'er whose head
The loose white clouds are borne away.

And there the full broad river runs,
And many a fount wells fresh and sweet,
To cool thee when the mid-day suns
Have made thee faint beneath their heat.

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;
Spirit of the new wakened year!
The sun in his blue realm above
Smooths a bright path when thou art here.

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,
The wooing ring-dove in the shade;
On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! thou art like our wayward race;—
When not a shade of pain or ill
Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,
Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.

The Zephyr's Soliloquy

by Hannah Flagg Gould

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Though whence I have come, or whither I go,
My end or my nature I ne'er may know,
I will number o'er to myself a few
Of the countless things I am born to do.

I flit, in the days of the joyous Spring,
Through field and forest, and I freight my wing
With the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear
Where I know that man will inhale the air.
And while I hover o'er beauty's lip,
I part her locks with my pinion's tip;
Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress,
And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress.
I love to sport with the silken curl
On the lily neck of the laughing girl;
To dry the tear of the weeping boy,
Who's breaking his heart for a broken toy;
To fan the heat of his brow away,
And over his mother's harp-strings play,
Till, his griefs forgotten, he looks around
For the secret hand that has waked the sound.
I love, when the warrior mails his breast,
To toss the head of his snow-white crest;
To take the adieu that he turns to leave,
And the sigh that his lady retired to heave!
When the sultry sun of a summer's day
Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away,

And the flowers are left to thirst to death,
I love to come and afford them breath;
And under each languid, drooping thing
To place my balmy and cooling wing.
When the bright, fresh showers have just gone by,
And the rainbow stands in the evening sky,
Oh! then is the merriest time for me;
And I and my race have a jubilee!
We fly to the gardens and shake the drops
From the bending boughs and the floweret tops;
And revel unseen in the calm starlight,
Or dance on the moon-beams the live-long night.
These, ah! these are my hours of gladness!
But, I have my days and my nights of sadness!
When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose,
And 't is turning as white as the mountain snows;
While the eye of beauty must soon be hid
For ever, beneath its sinking lid—
Oh! I'd give my whole self but to spare that gasp,
And save her a moment from death's cold grasp!
And when she is borne to repose alone
'Neath the fresh-cut sod and the church-yard stone,
I keep close by her, and do my best
To lift the dark pall from the sleeper's breast;
And linger behind with the beautiful clay,
When friends and kindred have gone their way!
When the babe, whose dimples I used to fan,
I see completing its earthly span,
I long, with a spirit so pure, to go
From the scene of sorrow and tears below,

Till I rise so high I can earth the song
Of welcome, that bursts from the angel throng,
As it enters its rest—but, alas! alas!
I am only from death to death to pass.
I hasten away over mountain and flood,
And find I'm alone on a field of blood.
The soldier is there—but he breathes no more;
And there is the plume, but 't is stained with gore.
I flutter and strive, in vain, to place
The end of his scarf o'er his marble face;
And find not even a sigh, to take
To her, whose heart is so soon to break!
I fly to the flowers that I loved so much—
They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch.
The earth is in ruins!— I turn to the sky—
It frowns! —and what can I do, but die?

The Mistaken Anemometer

by Anonymous

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A little anemometer
On the weather-bureau high
Was set to measure off the wind
That whistled through the sky.
As the wind blew hard or the wind blew soft,
So swift he turned or slow,
And just the numher of miles an hour
His dial-plate would show.

But the little anemometer
On the weather-bureau tall
Decided, very innocent,
'Twas he that did it all.
So when the wind blew a hurricane—
"I'm a terrible fellow!" he cried;
And when the wind was a zephyr mild—
"I'm too tired to blow," he sighed.

Until one melancholy day
A little breeze, in fun,
Twisted the anemometer
So that it couldn't run;
And thus it learned that the heavens work
On an independent plan,
And it grew to be a modest machine
And ceased to be like a man.

XVI. The Wind

by Emily Dickinson

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It's like the light, —
A fashionless delight
It's like the bee, —
A dateless melody.

It's like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.

It's like the morning, —
Best when it's done, —
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon.

XXIV. The Wind

by Emily Dickinson

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Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There's not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody

The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.

When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,

I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,

As if some caravan of sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.

The Wind's Visit

by Emily Dickinson

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The wind tapped like a tired man,
And like a host, "Come in,"
I boldly answered; entered then
My residence within

A rapid, footless guest,
To offer whom a chair
Were as impossible as hand
A sofa to the air.

No bone had he to bind him,
His speech was like the push
Of numerous humming-birds at once
From a superior bush.

His countenance a billow,
His fingers, if he pass,
Let go a music, as of tunes
Blown tremulous in glass.

He visited, still flitting;
Then, like a timid man,
Again he tapped — 't was flurriedly —
And I became alone.

The Meeting of the Winds

by William Francis Barnard

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The Northwind met with the Southwind
On the wide ways of the sky,
And the air turned frost as the clouds were tossed
To in confusion lie;
For the Northwind raged at the Southwind
To buffet her where she flew,
But the Southwind smiled like one beguiled
As her flower-sweet breath she blew.

The Northwind turned to the Southwind,
And saw her that she was fair;
With laugh of delight, with eyes of night,
And back-blown sun-bronzed hair.
And the Southwind knew him, the Northwind,
And saw him that he was strong;
With face to command, and a mighty hand
To whip his gusts along.

The Southwind sang to the Northwind,
"I am warmer than love, or fire,
And I know thy goal is the Southern Pole,
But thou art my heart's desire";
And the Northwind answered the Southwind,
"Wanderer, wait with me then:
Thy singing is sweet; 'tis well that we meet:
Make me thy music again."

The Southwind kissed to the Northwind,
And the Northwind clasped her hands;
While the wrath was hushed of the gales that rushed
Full wild o'er the seas and lands.
And there, twixt the earth and heavens,
At twilight or at morn,
Midst waitings from flowers in far-off bowers,
The delicate Spring was born.

The Wind and the Sea

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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I stood by the shore at the death of day,
As the sun sank flaming red;
And the face of the waters that spread away
Was as gray as the face of the dead.

And I heard the cry of the wanton sea
And the moan of the wailing wind;
For love's sweet pain in his heart had he,
But the gray old sea had sinned.

The wind was young and the sea was old,
But their cries went up together;
The wind was warm and the sea was cold,
For age makes wintry weather.

So they cried aloud and they wept amain,
Till the sky grew dark to hear it;
And out of its folds crept the misty rain,
In its shroud, like a troubled spirit.

For the wind was wild with a hopeless love,
And the sea was sad at heart
At many a crime that he wot of,
Wherein he had played his part.

He thought of the gallant ships gone down
By the will of his wicked waves;
And he thought how the churchyard in the town
Held the sea-made widows' graves.

The wild wind thought of the love he had left
Afar in an Eastern land,
And he longed, as long the much bereft,
For the touch of her perfumed hand.

In his winding wail and his deep-heaved sigh
His aching grief found vent;
While the sea looked up at the bending sky
And murmured: "I repent."

But e'en as he spoke, a ship came by,
That bravely ploughed the main,
And a light came into the sea's green eye,
And his heart grew hard again.

Then he spoke to the wind: "Friend, seest thou not
Yon vessel is eastward bound?
Pray speed with it to the happy spot
Where thy loved one may be found."

And the wind rose up in a dear delight,
And after the good ship sped;
But the crafty sea by his wicked might
Kept the vessel ever ahead.

Till the wind grew fierce in his despair,
And white on the brow and lip.
He tore his garments and tore his hair,
And fell on the flying ship.

And the ship went down, for a rock was there,
And the sailless sea loomed black;
While burdened again with dole and care,
The wind came moaning back.

And still he moans from his bosom hot
Where his raging grief lies pent,
And ever when the ships come not,
The sea says: "I repent,"

Night Winds

by Adelaide Crapsey

The old
Old winds that blew
When chaos was, what do
They tell the clattered trees that I
Should weep?

The Breezes of June

by Paul Hamilton Hayne

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On! sweet and soft,
Returning oft,
As oft they pass benignly,
The warm June breezes come and go,
Through golden rounds of murmurous flow,
At length to sigh,
Wax faint and die,
Far down the panting primrose sky,
Divinely!

Though soft and low
These breezes blow,
Their voice is passion's wholly;
And ah! our hearts go forth to meet
The burden of their music sweet,
Ere yet it sighs,
Faints, falters, dies
Down the rich path of sunset skies—
Half glad, half melancholy!

Bend, bend thine ear!
Oh! hark and hear
What vows each blithe new-comer!
Each warm June breeze that comes goes,
Is whispering to the royal rose,
And star-pale lily, trembling nigh,
Ere yet in subtlest harmony
Its murmurs die,
Wax faint and die
On thy flushed bosom, passionate sky,
Of youthful summer!

The Whirlwind

'O, there is nothing, when our work's before us,
Like despatch; for while our time is brief,
Some sweeping blast may suddenly come o'er us,
Lose our place, and turn another leaf!

The Bee, Clover, and Thistle
Hannah Flagg Gould

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by Hannah Flagg Gould

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'Whirlwind, Whirlwind! whither art thou hieing,
Snapping off the flowers young and fair;
Setting all the chaff and the withered leaves to flying;
Tossing up the dust in the air?'

'I,' said the whirlwind, 'cannot stop for talking;
Give me up your cap, my little man,
And the polished stick, that you will not need for walking,
While you run to catch them, if you can!

'Yonder pretty maiden—none has time to tell her
That I'm coming, ere I shall be there.
I will twirl her zephyr, snatch her light umbrella,
Seize her hat, and brush her glossy hair!'

On went the whirlwind, showing many capers,
One would hardly deem it meet to tell;
Dusting priest and lawyer, flirting gown and papers,
Discomposing matron, beau, and belle.

Whisk! from behind came the long and sweeping feather,
Round the head of old Chanticleer.
Plumed and plumeless bipeds felt the blast together,
In a way they would not like to hear.

Snug in an arbor sat a scholar, musing
Calmly o'er the philosophic page.
'Flap!' went the leaves of the volume he was using,
Cutting short the lecture of the sage.

'Hey!' said the book-worm, 'this, I think, is taking
Rather too much liberty with me.
Yet, I'll not resent it; for I'm bent on making
Use of every thing I hear and see.

'Many, I know, will not their anger stifle,
When as little cause as this they find
To let it kindle up; but minding every trifle
Is profitless, as quarrels with the wind!

'Forth to his business, when the whirlwind sallies,
He is all alive to get it done.
He on his pathway never lags nor dallies,
But is always up and on the run.

'Though ever whirling, never growing dizzy;
Motion gives him buoyancy and power.
All who have known him, own that he is busy,
Doing much in half a fleeting hour.

'O, there is nothing, when our work's before us,
Like despatch; for while our time is brief,
Some sweeping blast may suddenly come o'er us,
Lose our place, and turn another leaf!

'Whirlwind, Whirlwind, though you're but a flurry,
And so odd the business you pursue,
Though you come on, and are off in such a hurry,
I have caught a hint, and now, adieu.'

Equinoctial Gale

by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

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Dark messenger of some portentous news,
Wrap'd in black clouds of ominous events,
Say, whither comest thou in garments loose,
Thy course some devastation e'er presents.

Fear, and much dread, thy hollow murmurs bear
Of shipwrecks, where the mariners are lost,
Upon some foreign coast to perish there,
Or on some plank upon the billows tost.

But let thy clouds yield to the sun's bright ray,
And stay the progress of thy mad career.
O let thy waters flow in gentler streams,
While the rude winds to distant courses steer.

God rides upon the winds, and holds the reins,
And all the winds are silent at his word.
Trust in His word,—His faithfulness sustains,
And let his shield and buckler be our guard.

And at my eaves
A slow wind, ghostlike, comes and grieves and grieves.

– John Charles McNeill
Gray Days

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My Lady Wind

by Anonymous

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My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind,
Went round about the house to find
A chink to set her foot in;
She tried the keyhole in the door,
She tried the crevice in the floor,
And drove the chimney soot in.

And then one night when it was dark
She blew up such a tiny spark
That all the town was bothered;
From it she raised such flame and smoke
That many in great terror woke,
And many more were smothered.

And thus when once, my little dears,
A whisper reaches itching ears—
The same will come, you'll find:
Take my advice, restrain the tongue,
Remember what old nurse has sung
Of busy Lady Wind.

The Windy Day

by Annette Wynne

The wind was very bad that day,
It blew my brand new hat away,
It blew and blew and blew—
It should have found some better things to do.

Perhaps the sailor on the sea
Wanted that wind that pestered me,
But the wind just stayed around and blew
My things about. When he was through
He went and hid himself away
And never came again that day.

Blow, Wind, Blow! and Go, Mill, Go!

by Anonymous

Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go!
That the miller may grind his corn;
That the baker may take it and into rolls make it,
And send us some hot in the morn.

Nameless Pain

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

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In my nostrils the summer wind
Blows the exquisite scent of the rose:
O for the golden, golden wind,
Breaking the buds as it goes!
Breaking the buds and bending the grass,
And spilling the scent of the rose.

O wind of the summer morn,
Tearing the petals in twain,
Wafting the fragrant soul
Of the rose through valley and plain,
I would you could tear my heart to-day
And scatter its nameless pain!

The Chinook Wind

by James W. Whilt

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There's a soft warm breeze upon the air,
'Tis moaning soft and low,
'Tis cold and chill upon the hill,
Yet it's melting all the snow.

The Indians all tell us,
That many moons gone by
Right here within the mountains,
The North wind it did cry.

The Chinook wind made answer,
And said, "I'm not afraid,"
And then there raged a battle,
For a beautiful Indian Maid.

The Chinook wind was the victor,
The North wind went away,
But the Maiden fair had died of despair,
And deep in her grave she lay.

So every year his voice we hear,
Calling so soft and sweet,
Searching the grave of the one he would save,
Melting the snow at our feet.

'Tis the lover's wind, so the Indians say,
And his heart is ever sad,
But they welcome his coming, every one,
For the North wind is gone and they're glad.

The Wild Wind

by Clara W. Raymond

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Oh, the wind came howling at our house-door,
Like a maddened fiend set free;
He pushed and struggled with gasp and roar,
For an angry wind was he!

He dashed snow-wreaths at our window-panes,
The casements rattled and creaked;
Then up he climbed to the chimney tops,
And down through the flues he shrieked.

He found Jack's sled by the garden fence,
And tumbled it down in his spite;
And heaped the snow till he covered it up,
And hid it from poor Jack's sight.

He tore down the lattice and broke the house
Ned built for the birds last week;
And he bent the branches and bowed the trees,
Then rushed off fresh wrath to wreak.

And oh! how he frightened poor little Nell,
And made her tremble and weep,
Till mother came up and soothed the wee maid,
And lulled her with songs to sleep!

Her tiny hand nestled, content and still,
In her mother's, so soft and warm;
While with magical power of low, sweet tones
The mother-love hushed the storm.

The Song of the Wind and the Leaves

by Ed Blair

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There's a beautiful song that is sung every day
When the wind and the leaves play together,
And I hear the sweet notes as I wander along,
From my low cottage home to the heather.
And I fain would express the sweet sentiment there,
The sweet songs of love and devotion,
When the wind sighs to stay but must go on its way
On its journey o'er land and the ocean.

Oh, the songs yet to sing of the beautiful woods,
Oh, the songs that old Nature is singing,
I hear them each day as I wander away
Where the gay summer birds are awinging.
'Neath the dark shady leaves the soft winds take a peep
Where the birdlings are nested together,
And say: "Fly away," for the leaves cannot stay,
To shelter in bleak autumn weather.

Oh, soft summer winds; oh, beautiful woods,
Sing on for the children yet coming,
Sing sweet songs of love while the young turtle doves
Are cradled to sleep with your humming.
And when in the autumn the leaves turn to gold,
And sigh for the wind that will sever,
They'll sing once again your sweet plaintive strain,
And the music will go on forever.

Which Way Does the Wind Blow?

by Lucy Aikin

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Which way does the wind blow,
And where does he go?
He rides o’er the water,
He rides o’er the snow.

He blows and he tosses
The leaves from the tree,
As when you look upward,
You plainly can see.

From what place he comes,
To what place he goes,
There’s no one can tell you,
There’s no one who knows.

The Wind

by Ann Hawkshaw

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The wind it is a mystic thing,
Wandering o'er ocean wide,
And fanning all the thousand sails
That o'er its billows glide.

It curls the blue waves into foam,
It snaps the strongest mast,
Then like a sorrowing thing it sighs,
When the wild storm is past.

And yet how gently does it come
At evening through the bowers,
As if it said a kind "good-night"
To all the closing flowers.

It bears the perfume of the rose,
It fans the insect's wing;
'T is round me, with me everywhere,
Yet 't is an unseen thing.

How many sounds it bears along,
As o'er the earth it goes;
The songs of many joyous hearts,
The sounds of many woes!

It enters into palace halls,
And carries thence the sound
Of mirth and music;—but it creeps
The narrow prison round,

And bears away the captive's sigh,
Who sits in sorrow there;
Or from the martyr's lonely cell
Conveys his evening prayer.

It fans the reaper's heated brow;
It through the window creeps,
And lifts the fair child's golden curls,
As on her couch she sleeps.

'T is like the light, a gift to all,
To prince, to peasant given;
Awake, asleep, around us still,
There is this gift of heaven:

This strange, mysterious thing we call
The breeze, the air, the wind;
We call it so, but know no more,—
'T is mystery, like our mind.

Think not the things most wonderful
Are those beyond our ken,
For wonders are around the paths,
The daily paths of men!

Windy Nights

by Robert Louis Stevenson

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Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.

A Little Wind

by Elizabeth Madox Roberts

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When I lay down
In a clover place,
With eyelids closed,
In a clover place,
A little wind came to my face.

One gentle wind
Blew on my mouth,
And I said, "It will quiver by.
What little wind now can it be?"
And I lay still
Where the clovers were.

But when I raised my lids to see,
Then it was a butterfly.

The Autumn Wind

by Annette Wynne

The autumn wind is wild and free,
It rides up here fresh from the sea;
It rides and rides and never knows
Just where it goes;
It blew my papers all away
And acted boldly all the day;
But when the night grew dark and colder,
The autumn wind grew bold and bolder,
And tried to blow our chimney down,
And screamed at every house in town.

The March Wind Comes

by Annette Wynne

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The March wind comes with mighty sound,
The trees bend over to the ground;
"O hold us tight, Dear Ground," they cry;
"The wild March wind is riding by."

"Bend near, bend near, Tree-Children Dear,
But never let the March wind hear,
O, I shall hold you firm and fast,
And soon the bold wind will ride past."

The Winds of March

by Annette Wynne

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The winds of March are wild and strong,
They howl and whistle all day long;
They pull the hats from tall men's heads
And frighten children in their beds.

They brush the trees, they sweep the ground,
I'm glad no seedlings can be found,
For March would hurt each leaf and stem—
But April-time was made for them!

Locust Tree in Bloom

by Hilda Conkling

A bough of locust blossoms for my present,
Or just a spray is enough for me!
They smell like honeysuckle and poppies
Twined together . . .
Their buds hang like green fruit . . .
They are shoes of the wind.

Oh, Ye March Winds

by Albina Brockway Letts

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Beat, beat 'gainst my window panes,
Ye March winds, raw and chill!
Drift, drift 'round my window and door,
Ye March snows, as ye will!
I smile at your bluster and wrath,
I laugh at your sobbing pain;
For spring follows close on your path,
And short is your cruel reign.

Drift, drift, O snowy white threads,
Thick and fast, 'round temple and brow,
Ye can never chill my life,
Or give me one heart pang now;
For ye only tell of the spring,
The eternal youth of my years;
Tell that time is on the wing,
And the endless springtime nears.

The Mesa Wind Blows Soft

by Colorado Pete

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The Mesa wind blows soft tonight,
The western stars bend low,
Self-shadowed in the firelight
Old dreams, old visions go.

The mesa wind's a soft caress,
Cool fingers in my hair;
Soft whispers out of lonliness
That breath a lonely prayer...

O mesa wind go far to her
With kisses carried high,
And tell her mountain grasses stir
And 'wait her passing by;

Go tell her that the mesa trail
Lies yellow in the sun,
And clouds, like dreams, ride white and frail—
Lost longings, one by one.

The Wind in the Corn

by Edith Franklin Wyatt

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Far away, far away, someone is going, there—
Someone invisible, rider and horse:
Now a sheaf, now a leaf, tipping and blowing, bear
Naught of his tale to me, only his course.

Riding through lowland corn, riding through highland corn,
Flicking the furrows from seaboard to sea,
Riding through shoreland, and river-locked island corn,
Traveler, traveler, who can you be?

Yellow the sundown. The bright-terraced valley-top
Breathes all in silence: and, still, down the vale,
Far, where the corn-furrows' gold-dappling alleys drop
Answers the traveler, "Brief is my tale."

"Long have I ridden by cornfield and moorland, now;
Out of the bourn of the morning I came—
Ridden the fields where the steeps and the shore-lands bow
Heaped with earth's richnesses. Want is my name."

Yellow the twilight. The plume-terraced valley-top
Breathes forth its heart from the black fragrant loam.
Traveler, when will your long, hungry journey stop?
When will the bounty of earth be your home?

Tall stands the corn on the lowlands and highlands, now:
Full-fold and full-fold the bottom-lands leap
Seaward. The shorelands, the tassel-flocked islands' prow,
Wave, and close-serried soar prairie and steep.

Thousand-rayed, thousand, the gold-dappling alleys swing,
Comfort me—rock me to peace in their sweep:
Some day, oh, some day, the horseman will hear them sing,
"Drop your rein, traveler! Rest in my deep!"

An Arizona Wind

by Edith Franklin Wyatt

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The canyon wind blows high and low,
Her voice calls fresh and deep.
From mesa, bluff and blue plateau
Her pine-brushed currents sweep,
Down turquoise ledge and valley
And thousand-terraced height
Past opal drop and alley
And fawn-veiled stairs of light.

Of sheep-land, and of cattle-land
She whispers still and swift.
Her flight has fanned the painted sand
Green spur and lilac drift,
Leapt river-bed and rapid-head
Down tawny crags and buff,
Paced caverned gulches dark and red
And hundred-portaled bluff.

Her touch stirred pine and piñon ways
Before the foot of man.
In Navajo dominion days
Through peopled cliffs she ran.
As soon as star and shadow sped,
Be fore the first green tree,
Before the Colorado fled,
Her soul turned towards the sea.

Oh, manifold and manifold
The canyon drops away:
And far the desert shimmers old
As night, and young as day:
And wide and free your music plays,
So dumb, so fully heard,
Like ocean tides and human ways
That speak without a word.

What are you many-chording wind
And what is it you say,
As light as life, as light as death,
Across the vibrant day?
So high you blow, so low you blow—
And yet so close and deep,
I hardly know from my own breath
The hushing air you keep.

I hardly know from my own breath
Your breath of sage and pine.
My fault, my force, my dream, my death
Throb in your life divine—
Divine as desert dust, the rock
In sapphire depths below
The vanished cliffman and the flock
Far on the blue plateau.

Lake Winds

by Edith Franklin Wyatt

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Keen, fleet and cool, on your silver-breathed way,
Whirling the c irrus-cloud, brushing the mire,
Far down the roads of the night and the day,
Sing me the name of my proudest desire.

Midland wind, inland wind, buoying low,
Flying on Michigan's gray-dappled deep,
Swing me the strength and the splendor you know
Once, ere the hour of my infinite sleep.

Fling them but once to me-once let me go
Straight to some goal through all mist or all mire,
Knowing no thought but to live, as you blow,
Free in the name of my proudest desire.

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