The wind comes loping down the mountain
Like a three legged dog let loose and carefree;
It raises a howl in the shrubs
And finds its echo in the trees.
It leaps and snarls with noisy abandon,
Tumbling in the sway of the wood,
And lifts doors from their ancient frames
Before ambling through fields gold with grain.
Here it is again, the rolling wind, the lolloping wind,
Singing on the air with warm melodies,
With just a hint of autumn tinged
In the wildness and surge of its wing.
A scrap of dark cloud somersaults
Below a slate of turbulent sky,
An outrider before a stormy intrusion
Making haste across the wild grey
Or like a lone, loping dog finding its way
By scent or blind feel in the close of day.
The wind, the wild wind, howls ever louder,
And lurches in joyful prancing play,
Bending the trees to their limits, tossing debris
Over gardens and lawns, enlivening the air,
Carelessly, wantonly, cooling to the brim,
Stirring ancient memories on the skin.