The Winds

To me the winds that die and start,

And strive in wars that never cease,

Are dearer than the level peace

That lies unstirred at summer's heart;

More dear to me the shadowed wold,

Where, with report of tempest rife,

The air intensifies with life,

Than quiet fields of summer's gold.

I am the winds' admitted friend:

They seal our linked fellowships

With speech of warm or icy lips,

With touch of west and east that blend.

And when my spirit listless stands,

With folded wings that do not live,

Their own assuageless wings they give

To lift her from the stirless lands.