Iris Judith Johnson: The Minstrel

““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.”

— Quote Source