I wake with a start -

and the moon is gone,

in the last of the night,

from the walls of the barn,

and the shed that was bright,

is a ghost.

Thicker than hands can push

is the night,

yet sweet from below

comes the smell of the grapes,

and the nameless smell of the dark.

No breath from the men asleep,

as I creep to see,

no sound of the cricket,

no brook -

then,

the wind....

It is up, and alarming the leaves

with a pour and a rush,

roaring through valleys,

exploring a hill and a road -it ponders and grieves,

dying to sighs, to a murmur; a hush.

Out of the caves of the forest,

dark, and far,

follows the breath of the night,

hollow and hoarse -

never the light of a star -

on through the tunnels of trees

in the black, and up -

up to the level field and the house.

It whirls at the window and door,

tears round the barn with a shout and carouse,

and goes down to trouble the lake.

Waves beat faint on the shore....

Now after the dark of the moon,

the walls gleam dimly white,

and the trees still talk of the wind,

the blowing wind in the night.