'WHO are the winds? Who are the winds?' -- The storm was blowing wild -- 'Who are the winds? Who are the winds?' -- So question'd me the wild-eyed child. 'They are the souls, O child,' I said, 'Of men who long since ceased to hope; And lastly, wishing to be dead, They lay down on the mountain-slope, And sigh'd their wills away; And nature taking them hath made Round and about the world to stray. Yet oft is waked the fitful pain, Which causes them to blow, And still the passion stirs again Which vex'd them long ago; And then no longer linger they, But with a wild shriek sweep away, And the green waves whiten to the moon, And ships are wreck'd, and shores are strewn.' |