Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
The WindHarold Monro (18791932)
S
’Twill send the planets tumbling down;
And all the waving trees are dight
In gauzes wafted from the moon.
Are swiftly from the mountains swirl’d;
The wind is like a floating shroud
Wound light about the shivering world.
Entangled in a knotty tree,
As trembling fishes captured are
In nets from the eternal sea.
Of spirits from the sparkling skies:
There seems a maiden with her hair
All tumbled in my blinded eyes.
And shrill to one another call!
I fear that, if they cannot tire,
The moon, her shining self, will fall.
Like spray the stars about mine eyes!
Wind, overturn the goblet, spill
On me the everlasting skies!