Poetry of Kansas

The Wind

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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November 2, 2002 / John & Susan Howell / Wichita, Kansas / howell@kotn.org

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