Classic Poem

The wind goes whispering through the birchen glade
And sets a myriad dancing leaves a-quiver;
It sings of nesting birds, of glimmering shade,
And murmurs of a little chattering river.
And through the song, as cool and clear and white
As cadence of a choir of sylvan singers
Or thrushes answering in the evening light,
Sweep eerie chords from hurrying elfin fingers.

The strong wind surges through the woods of oak
And chants the song of kings of armed men—
The tramp of hosts, the battle-cry, the stroke
Of steel on steel that rings and rings again.
And all its song is like a trumpet tone—
The rumble of the driving battle-car—
The hymn of priests before the altar stone,
And tramp of nations going forth to war.

But ah, the wind among the pines—the wind
That ebbs and flows in organ monotone—
Forever calls the sea it left behind,
Forever sings the great sea-song alone!
And all its song is like the breakers' roar,
The rush of surf across the seething rips—
The boom of waves that beat along the shore,
And plunge and heave of ocean-sailing ships.