The wind, it murmurs through the trees,
Rustles the leaves,
And shakes the eaves!
It swoops on through the emerald grass,
And whistles behind the window glass.
Its laughter rings clear from tree to tree,
And it fills the sails of ships at sea.
It flies through the air,
And tickles your hair.
And it soars way up high,
And chases the fleecy clouds in the sky.
Then it dips down low,
To the flowers and meadows below.
It makes the wildflowers nod,
And whispers to the prairie sod.
It runs like water cool and clean,
Sometimes rushing wild, sometimes serene.
It tickles the highest mountain, and caresses the lowest valley,
Bringing sweet delight to girls like me.
In the night it cries and groans,
In the darkness it whimpers and moans
Like a woman with sorrow wild,
Searching for her long-lost child.
Until the rosie golden morn,
Conquerors her sorrow dark and forlorn.
© Anne Brison