Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Wind in the Woods

The Wind in the Woods.

'Tis a pleasant sight, on a vernal day,
When shadow and sun divide the heaven,
To watch the south wind wake for play;—
Not on the sea, where ships are riven,—
Not on the mountain, 'mid rain and storm,
But when earth is sunny, and green, and warm.
O woodland wind, how I love to see
Thy beautiful strength on the forest tree!

Lord of the oak, that seems lord of the wild,
Thou art shaking his crown and thousand arms
With the ease of a spirit, the glee of a child,
And the pride of a woman who knows her charms;
The poplar bends like a merchant's mast,
His leaves, though they fall not, are fluttering fast;
And the beech, and the lime, and the ash-crowned hill,
Stirs to its core at thy wandering will.

The pines that uprear themselves dark and tall,
Black knights of the forest so stately and old,
They must bow their heads when they hear thy call;
Ay, bow like the lily, those Norsemen bold:
And every tree of the field, or the bower,
Or single in strength, or many in power,
Quiver and thrill from the leaf to the stem,
For the unseen wind is the master of them.

It is gallant play; for the sun is bright,
And the rivulet sings a merrier song;
The corn in the meadow waves dark and light
As the trees fling shade, or the breeze is strong.
And over the hills, whether rocky or green,
Troops of the noonday ghosts are seen;
The lovely shadows of lovelier clouds,
With the gleam of the mountains amongst their crowds.

The birds as they fly scarce use their wings,
They are borne upon those of the wind to-day;
Their plumes are ruffled, like all green things,
And flowers, and streams, by his noisy play.
One hour—and valley, and wood, and hill,
May be sleeping and shining all bright and still;
Not a wave, not a leaf, not a spray in motion,
Of all which now looks like a vernal ocean;—
Beautiful that;—yet I love to see
Thy strength, O wind, on the forest tree!