His Majesty the Wind,

Who sways beneath the sycamores,

Dancing a waltz with twirls and spins,

And cannot hear you calling.

He feels black velvet come to cloak him,

At night,

When things are calm,

And the swinging limbs have gone to bed,

To slice him once again,

At dawn.

He has a heart,

And hates to hear,

The Weeping Willow cry;

He takes the bright green tears,

And tosses them aside.

To the wordless song of birds he wakes,

And treats it like the howl,

Of a siren glazed in moonlight,

As the frosty rain comes out to prowl.

A piece of sky will settle,

On his phantom tongue and as they meet,

He will find,

To his surprise;

He thinks the moonlight sweet.