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.