THERE'S a rogue at play in my sunlit room, And scarcely he rests from fun; Floor, window, shelf, or closet's gloom All are to him as one. He opens the books and peeps within, The paper turns inside out, Snatches my thread, and thinks no sin To throw my work about. He clutches the curtains and whisks them down, Then pulls at the picture cords, Tosses my hair in the way of his own, Nor heeds my coaxing words. I wonder if one so glad and young Will ever be prim and old? He answers not, for he has no tongue— Yet tells sweet tales as are told. He climbs the walls, yet has no feet; No wings, but flies the same; No hands, no head, but breath so sweet— For West Wind is his name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MARTHA WASHINGTON by SIDNEY LANIER MATER AMABILIS by EMMA LAZARUS THE CANDLE by KATHERINE MANSFIELD BROTHERHOOD (2) by EDWIN MARKHAM A REPUBLIC! by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SPARROW HARK IN THE RAIN (ALEXANDER STEPHENS HEARS NEWS) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |