The Wind

by John Vance Cheney

John Vance Cheney

The yellow fox

Has his bed in the rocks;

The brown bird, in the tree

Her nest has she;

But the wind, come forth

Of south and north,

Of east and west,

Where shall he rest?

The snake, the eft,

Slips into the cleft;

The marmot sleeps sound

In the under-ground;

But the wind of the hill

Is wandering still;

And the wind of the sea,

When sleepeth he?

The clouds of the air,

They slumber there;

Flowers droop the head,

And the leaves lie dead;

But the wind, the wind,

What rest shall he find?

When shall he roam

The wild road home?

Last updated January 14, 2019