Wind by Gwendolyn Bennett




The wind was a care-free soul 
    That broke the chains of earth, 
And strode for a moment across the land
    With the wild halloo of his mirth.
He little cared that he ripped up trees, 
    That houses fell at his hand, 
That his step broke calm on the breast of seas, 
    That his feet stirred clouds of sand. 

But when he had had his little joke, 
    Had shouted and laughed and sung, 
When the trees were scarred, their branches broke, 
    And their foliage aching hung, 
He crept to his cave with a stealthy tread, 
    With rain-filled eyes and low-bowed head.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

If You Knew by Ruth Muskrat Bronson

Image
If you could know the empty ache of loneliness,           Masked well behind the calm indifferent face Of us who pass you by in studied hurriedness,           Intent upon our way, lest in the little space Of one forgetful moment hungry eyes implore           You to be kind, to open up your heart a little more, I’m sure you’d smile a little kindlier, sometimes,           To those of us you’ve never seen before. If you could know the eagerness we’d grasp           The hand you’d give to us in friendliness; What vast, potential friendship in that clasp           We’d press, and love you for your gentleness; If you could know the wide, wide reach           Of love that simple friendliness could teach, I’m sure you’d say “Hello, my friend,” sometimes,            And now and then extend a hand in friendliness to each
Read more

Paul Revere’s Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Image
Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, “If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church-tower, as a signal-light,— One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm.” Then he said “Good night!” and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war: A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon, like a prison-bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the
Read more