THE morning hath the sun for mate,
The night the moon for wife;
The wind and I, like things of hate,
Go on alone through life.
The wind is cold, the wind is hot,
The wind is fierce and wild;
It stays not long in any spot,
It never is beguiled.
Perhaps the wind might pause awhile
And whisper to the reeds,
If they would only rise and smile,
And ask the lone wind’s needs.