If the wind could talk or if we could listen, would it tell of warm meadows or of war’s crescendos?

I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind

— by William Wordsworth

I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost— A midnight harmony; and wholly lost To the general sense of men by chains confined Of business, care, or pleasure; or resigned To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain, Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, Like acceptation from the World will find. Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink A dirge devoutly breathed o’er sorrows past; And to the attendant promise will give heed— The prophecy—like that of this wild blast, Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink, Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.