For two long days the wind has beat the air;
With rushing tumult and undying force
Has still pursued its wild and angry course,
And left the maples and the elm trees bare.
The wind – most strange of all things! Who shall dare
Say where its resting-place, or whence its source?
Onward! untiring and without remorse,
Still flying onward, – pausing, ending, where?
No limit hath the wind, it will not stay,
Nor change its path for any human will;
Seeming a wayward and unguided power;
Beating along its ever-restless way,
With stormy sighs the empty air to fill,
And hushing to a whisper in an hour!