Classic Poem

Last night the winds came whining at the screen,
late, but with yet a while to dream of dawn——
with midnight, like an old tale dull and drawn
and readily forgotten in the mean,
past, but with sleepless hours to intervene,
and many an empty pondering to yawn,
and many a suave expedient to fawn,
before the winds would come to vent their spleen.
Yet not so spleenful was their whine, I thought,
as eager with solicitude for me,
or you, or us, a something to forsee
urging the winds to warn me, all unsought,
all in an unknown tongue, and to persuade
into a spell of caution. I was afraid.

I was a fool. But do you hear them now,
whining persistently at the garden gate,
strangely assertive, almost articulate,
almost implicit in the way they blow?
Do you not hear them shudder as they grow
despairful, only to reiterate
their warnings? Ah, perchance they only prate
of spleenful self, so prone to overflow.
Love, let me think that of themselves they whine.
I was a fool. I know that all is well.
I now deplore the folly of the spell
of nameless worry. You are safe, are mine.
And yet I hate the August winds, my dear.
I dread them. It is fear they utter, fear.