The Wind’s Song
Oh, the wild November wind,
How it blew!
How the dead leaves rasped and rustled,
Soared and sank and buzzed and bustled
As they flew;
While above the empty square,
Seeming skeletons in air,
Battered branches, brown and bare,
Gauntly grinned;
And the frightened dust-clouds, flying.
Heard the calling and the crying
Of the wind,—
The wild November wind.
Oh, the wild November wind,
How it screamed!
How it moaned and mocked and muttered
At the cottage window, shuttered,
Whence there streamed
Fitful flecks of firelight mild:
And within, a mother smiled,
Singing softly to her child
As there dinned
Round the gabled roof and rafter
Long and loud the shout and laughter
Of the wind,—
The wild November wind.
Oh, the wild November wind,
How it rang
Through the rigging of a vessel
Rocking where the great waves wrestle!
And it sang,
Light and low, that mother’s song;
And the master, staunch and strong,
Heard the sweet strain drift along—
Softened, thinned,—
Heard the tightened cordage ringing
Till it seemed a loved voice singing
In the wind,—
The wild November wind.