The cabin sits alone far up a hill
Where all the year the mournful wind blows shrill.
She used to tell him sometimes: “No one knows
How hard it is to listen while it blows.”
He never touched a plow again, they say,
After he found her dead, but went away.
And tenants wouldn’t live upon the place
Because, the neighbors said, they saw her face
Pressed close against the little window-pane
Watching the twisting storm-clouds in the rain;
And in the night-time they could hear her cry
And moan and whimper if the gale was high.
They said she had no cause to die, but still
The wind was always blowing on that hill.