Rebuked

The wind is a wilful child

Run from its mother;

Impudent, roguish, rude,

An unending bother.

Look at the way it rushes

Across the street,

Raising the dust and lifting

The hiding-sheet

From the back of the farmer's wagon,

Peering under;

Face inquisitive, pert,

Impish with wonder.

But that which lay under the sheet

Made it grow still,

Made it steal frightened away

And hide in a hill:

Death-cadaverous, frowning,

Grimly aloof-

Stern, inscrutable eyes

Staring reproof.