The Wind

The wind blows freely through the meadows,

Leaning on the sun-swept grass.

Softly does it fan the faces

Of the Indian and his son.

 

But ere the nightshades had a-fallen

It roared and shrieked around the corners

Of the buckskin teepee walls.

 

The trees they shuddered and they groaned

As the eerie tempest cried,

Echoing the savage voices

Of the lonely timber wolf.

 

But when the dawn had slowly blossomed

Breaking soon the power of night,

Blushing rosy in the east,

The wind had settled to a simple,

Gentle quiet morning breeze.

 

Thus is wind among the many,

Unpredictable and sharp,

Biting now, blessing then,

Thus is the wind.

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