Wind and Air

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

 

By heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike.

Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, and now that, and changes name as it changes direction.

Criticism should not be querulous and wasting, all knife and root-puller, but guiding, instructive, inspiring, a south wind, not an east wind.

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.

Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,

A boy’s will is the wind’s will

Athene sent them a following breeze, a strong west wind that whistled over the wine-dark sea.

Clear the air! clean the sky! wash the wind!

You don’t need a weather man To know which way the wind blows

a crystal willow, a poplar of water, a tall fountain the wind arches over, a tree deep-rooted yet dancing still, a course of a river that turns, moves on, doubles back, and comes full circle, forever arriving:

By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast—a cold wind.

And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I: But when the trees bow down their heads, The wind is passing by.

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the bay, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunderstorm against the wind.

All tenantless, save to the crannying wind.

The air bites shrewdly.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude.