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The Wind.
by Theodore Harding RandThe lithe wind races and sings
Over the grasses and wheat -
See the emerald floor as it springs
To the touch of invisible feet!
Ah, later, the fir and the pine
Shall stoop to its weightier tread,
As it tramps the thundering brine
Till it shudders and whitens in dread!
Breath of man! a glass of thine own
Is the wind on the land, on the sea -
Joy of life at thy touch! - full grown,
Destruction and death maybe!