All through the night the wind lies still,
Curbing the strength of an eager will;
Morning finds it humming through the trees …
Tuning up fiddle strings quite at ease,
Trying out the frail lutes
Made of hollow reeds.
Where the winding brook its amber yields,
Reapers garner hay from gold-brown fields;
Crimson leaves await a rough caress …
Hoping for a moment of tenderness:
Wind can be a sharp flail,
Or may croon and kiss.
Hear the gale sweep forth in strength and might,
See the swift-winged swallows take to flight;
Hear the contention among the trees
Driven before it with conquering ease,–
Made to pay rich homage,
Stripped of golden leaves!
Wearying of such a toilsome life,
Watch it put an end to noise and strife,–
Tip-toeing softly its strength to yield
Mid saffron pumpkins in a brown field;
Combing tangled marsh grass,
Tranquil now … and stilled.
(Jewell Miller)
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