The Poetry Corner

The Wind.

By Theodore Harding Rand

The lithe wind races and sings Over the grasses and wheat - See the emerald floor as it springs To the touch of invisible feet! Ah, later, the fir and the pine Shall stoop to its weightier tread, As it tramps the thundering brine Till it shudders and whitens in dread! Breath of man! a glass of thine own Is the wind on the land, on the sea - Joy of life at thy touch! - full grown, Destruction and death maybe!