| The woods that border the town are gray,
The hills beyond are blue; The angry clouds go scurrying by Lest the sad sun venture through. The fretful wind, the whimpering wind, The wind that is never still Comes lustily into his own at last On this far, high hill. All day he swaggers about the streets, And bullies the weather-vanes; All night he beats with his unseen fists The shivering window-panes. The scolding wind, the cowardly wind, The wind that must have his will With every weak and shuddering thing On this far, high hill. My heart's in the wake of the wind tonight And following up and down The swirl of dust and leaves and smoke In the streets of the sleeping town. O truant heart! O wandering heart! Will you go gypsying still When the wind is flinging my dust about On this far, high hill? |
The Call of Kansas and Other Poems
Esther M. (Clark) Hill
(Cedar Rapids: Torch Press. __)
Page 35
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