The wind has come, and everything is motion
Full of the sounds of rain not yet arrived;
It speaks of summers ending, and an ocean
Of rain and snow that is to be survived.
It tells me of the coming of the storm
Which shall remove me from my quiet state
And whistles that it will not keep me warm
From ice and chill too deep to contemplate.
I do not ask a favor of the weather
Nor do I trust its promises beside:
For it and I go back too far together
To let it order me to stay inside.
I will be free, and do what I desire
For in my soul there is sufficient fire.
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