Wind at Midnight
It's midnight, and the swearing wind
Is like a horse-thief gipsy,
Shouting aloud his ribald songs
And staggering as if tipsy;
Sometimes he slinks away awhile
And all the dale is quiet,
Only to be aroused again
By his sudden gusty riot.
He stumbles over drowsy trees,
He spits into the river,
Till all the flowers close their eyes
And rushes quake and shiver;
But though he is a ruffian
He's such a handsome devil
That all the gipsy-hearted folk
Forgive his wildest revel.
His clothes are always ragged,
But his buttons shine brightly,
They're forged on starry anvils
And given to him nightly:
While I have been listening
He's dashed into my stable
And with his cloudy bridles
The fellow has been able
To steal my proudest stallions,
My swiftest piebald ponies
From Pays Bleu. He's racing them
On fells among the conies,
Halloing up the steepest ghylls
Over the stoniest courses.
Confound his impudence! How dare
He race my finest horses!
Structure
32 lines · 2 stanzas