Wind
Though crystal stars trans-pierce the sky,
The world we see is but a lie:
The silvered moon that bathes the lea
In waxen light and filagree,
The rising sun that coats in gold
The topmost branches of each tree,
Are but a concept tired and old
Of painters’ brushstroke imagery.
And yet each time I watch them pass,
Collapsing waves of whispering grass,
The windblown gases of the storm,
The shadow clouds that skim the corn,
The black, the grey, the shimmering bright
Unbridled horses of the night,
I feel impelled despite my scorn
To hail the wind’s poetic form.
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