All the hands of the wind are now catching and pulling so fiercely
The clothing and hair of the women of spirit who dare to be stepping along
With a sunlight of laughter and joy on exuberant faces made strong
In the glory of greeting a day of delight with the might of their pride
That the wind’s like a singer of life whose new music declares
His abundant desire to shout and not sing of his triumphing ways
High exulting with spring in her merriest mirth,
And so soaring above and on through and around
In majestical motion of glorious sound
He then reaches that high note for which he was bound,
Then falls in a whisper on down to the ground.
Then is silence; then stillness; then some words spoken light
By the women of spirit bidding day a goodnight.
Then on into their houses to think and to read and to rest,
And the moon comes out quiet and fulsome and bright,
And again the wind wakens to stir the earth’s breast—
All her trees with buds popping, all her flowers that nap,
All her streams and her rivers with bouncing white caps—
And his breath is a pleasure so deep and so true
That he flows like a man who is treasuring a view
Of the days that are coming when his words will take form
In the things he invents, which will then be the norm.
Oh, heroical wind, oh you breathing so free,
Be the spirit of man as the spirit of thee!
If he pause, be it little; if he rush, be it much,
All exult in creation of his finger-point touch,
That as wind which is fearless, but beyond it so strong,
That first, rocks, and then mountains, he will move with thought’s song.
And the ocean will hear him and deliver its tide
To his purpose within it of life-giving pride,
And far planets will hunger for his mind’s fingertips
In the song of his spirit that out-flows from his lips.
For it’s man who’s now master; yea, manhood is light,
And his rational thinking the crown of his height,
And the ghostliest glories men wished them of yore
Are the things he has made him outside of your door.
Then open it, see! Man is god when he’s free!
Make slavery die! Make forcing men fly!
Wave the banner of man; whip it up, raise it high!
the soul of the wind
is really just the wind
it blows up the skirt of a pretty lady
it is my god