Dorothy Keeley

A WIND that blows from the sea, and smells

Of spring and fall together,

Runs racing up the yellow fields

Into the autumn weather.

And I run too, for I am young

And breathless with all living—

The trees are shouting as we pass,

The asters singing in the grass.

In half an hundred years from now,

When all my songs are sung,

I’ll not be old and crossly sage,

I’ll love the bright hill of my age

Under its winter sun,

And wave the gayest hand I know

To everything that’s young.