Ida Judith Johnson

“WOE……!”

My Lord Wind sings.

His voice is a harp, a harp of a thousand strings;

His voice is a harp, and he rides on swift and terrible wings.

“Woe……!”

My Lord Wind shrills;

And the pine-trees mutter threats to their parent hills,

The ragged scrub-oaks writhe and clash at fierce demoniac wills.

“Woe……!”

My Lord Wind rails;

And the young oak bends to the hiss of his stinging flails,

While the old oak breaks and the cowering pine-tree wails.

“Woe……!”

My Lord Wind grieves;

And a plaintive echo stirs through the fallen leaves,

Like a child-lorn mother’s breast the grassy hill-side heaves.

“Woe……!”

My Lord Wind cries,

And the word is a mad crescendo of sobs and sighs.

Then out in the far somewhere the voice of my Lord Wind dies.