Wind Poems

The Song of the Wind and the Leaves

https://discoverpoetry.com/poems/wind-poems/

by Ed Blair

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There's a beautiful song that is sung every day

                        There's a beautiful song that is sung every day                  When the wind and the leaves play together,
And I hear the sweet notes as I wander along,
From my low cottage home to the heather.
And I fain would express the sweet sentiment there,
The sweet songs of love and devotion,
When the wind sighs to stay but must go on its way
On its journey o'er land and the ocean.

Oh, the songs yet to sing of the beautiful woods,
Oh, the songs that old Nature is singing,
I hear them each day as I wander away
Where the gay summer birds are awinging.
'Neath the dark shady leaves the soft winds take a peep
Where the birdlings are nested together,
And say: "Fly away," for the leaves cannot stay,
To shelter in bleak autumn weather.

Oh, soft summer winds; oh, beautiful woods,
Sing on for the children yet coming,
Sing sweet songs of love while the young turtle doves
Are cradled to sleep with your humming.
And when in the autumn the leaves turn to gold,
And sigh for the wind that will sever,
They'll sing once again your sweet plaintive strain,
And the music will go on forever.

The Chinook Wind

by James W. Whilt

There's a soft warm breeze upon the air,

There's a soft warm breeze upon the air                    'Tis moaning soft and low,
'Tis cold and chill upon the hill,
Yet it's melting all the snow.

The Indians all tell us,
That many moons gone by
Right here within the mountains,
The North wind it did cry.

The Chinook wind made answer,
And said, "I'm not afraid,"
And then there raged a battle,
For a beautiful Indian Maid.

The Chinook wind was the victor,
The North wind went away,
But the Maiden fair had died of despair,
And deep in her grave she lay.

So every year his voice we hear,
Calling so soft and sweet,
Searching the grave of the one he would save,
Melting the snow at our feet.

'Tis the lover's wind, so the Indians say,
And his heart is ever sad,
But they welcome his coming, every one,
For the North wind is gone and they're glad.

The Wind

by Ann Hawkshaw

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The wind it is a mystic thing,
Wandering o'er ocean wide,
And fanning all the thousand sails
That o'er its billows glide.

It curls the blue waves into foam,
It snaps the strongest mast,
Then like a sorrowing thing it sighs,
When the wild storm is past.

And yet how gently does it come
At evening through the bowers,
As if it said a kind "good-night"
To all the closing flowers.

It bears the perfume of the rose,
It fans the insect's wing;
'T is round me, with me everywhere,
Yet 't is an unseen thing.

How many sounds it bears along,
As o'er the earth it goes;
The songs of many joyous hearts,
The sounds of many woes!

It enters into palace halls,
And carries thence the sound
Of mirth and music;—but it creeps
The narrow prison round,

And bears away the captive's sigh,
Who sits in sorrow there;
Or from the martyr's lonely cell
Conveys his evening prayer.

It fans the reaper's heated brow;
It through the window creeps,
And lifts the fair child's golden curls,
As on her couch she sleeps.

'T is like the light, a gift to all,
To prince, to peasant given;
Awake, asleep, around us still,
There is this gift of heaven:

This strange, mysterious thing we call
The breeze, the air, the wind;
We call it so, but know no more,—
'T is mystery, like our mind.

Think not the things most wonderful
Are those beyond our ken,
For wonders are around the paths,
The daily paths of men!

 It seems our sunny beach vacation can be forgotten. Wind and rain are our companions.