Classic Poem

Hark! the wind sobs through the black hair of the night.
Hark! the wind moans in the thin arms of the day;
And calls, infinitely far away,
Rising and falling — falling — falling.
Then turns and hurries back with eager feet
To wrench at the walls of man,
Scream in the street,
And pass again as soft as light, as light.

Oh! the wind rocks through the deep waves of the hills.
Oh! the wind thrills through the taut ropes of the skies;
Then stops and wrings its hands and sighs, and sighs —
Then bitter grows and lifts its streaming eyes and streaming hair
To scream its hate and terror and despair;
Then hastes on frantic feet to the hard street
And crawls to the closed door and cries — and cries — and cries.