Any wind that comes like this—
Loosing silence from the hills,
Coiling leaves into a hiss,
Stroking water till it thrills,
Twisting shadows of the finned
Lengths of flashing fish that curl
In crooked water—any wind
That comes like this must be a girl.
Only a girl of flowing air,
Of imperceptible impress
Upon the startled grass could bear,
Invisibly, such loveliness.
She must have tree-entangled hair
Streaming down shoulders of sheer white,
And eyes of fire-fretted stare
Empty and blinded by the light.
She must have fingers quick as flame,
Subtle as frost and fine as thread,
Restless as water, fingers lame
From tearing shred of bark from shred.
And body supple as the willow,
Slender as leaping flame on wick,
Taking any leaf for pillow,
Bruised upon a broken stick.
Light feet flitting through the wood,
Fluttering through the dusky brush,
Still in the lonely solitude
Even her singing is a hush;
Feet that tread the trembling leaves,
Start them loose without a sound;
Curving arms that drop long sleeves,
Trembling orchids on the ground.
Any wind a thorn can snatch,
Stab the wind-arms till they quiver;
Any wind a cliff can catch,
Toss it writhing on the river;
Wind lithe as light and quick as wings,
Wind that any hand can hurl
Shuddering where the silence springs—
Such wind can only be a girl.