* * The poetry of Ruth T. Whittlesey * *

The Wind

From whence I come no man may know-

When I may strike or where I go;

I help the robin southward pass-

The darkest clouds I drive, alas;

Wanted or not, I blow and blow.

I spread afar all seeds that grow;

I bend the tallest trees so low;

I even sear the little grass;

I am the wind.

I make the dying bonfire glow;

I dry the streams in summer so

The tribe of Israel may pass-

I change to turn back deadly gas-

But why, only my King may know!

I am the wind.

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