Harold Monro (1879–1932)

SO wayward is the wind to-night

’Twill send the planets tumbling down;

And all the waving trees are dight

In gauzes wafted from the moon.

Faint streaky wisps of roaming cloud

Are swiftly from the mountains swirl’d;

The wind is like a floating shroud

Wound light about the shivering world.

I think I see a little star

Entangled in a knotty tree,

As trembling fishes captured are

In nets from the eternal sea.

There seems a bevy in the air

Of spirits from the sparkling skies:

There seems a maiden with her hair

All tumbled in my blinded eyes.

O, how they whisper, how conspire,

And shrill to one another call!

I fear that, if they cannot tire,

The moon, her shining self, will fall.

Blow! Scatter even if you will

Like spray the stars about mine eyes!

Wind, overturn the goblet, spill

On me the everlasting skies!