Have you ever stopped and just listened to the wind in the trees? It can sound so relaxing - gentle, like the waves on the ocean or it can sound fierce like a storm approaching. In this poem, Nixon Waterman describes
the sound of the wind as it blows through the trees.
Through the treetops gently swaying
Soft and low the wind a straying,
In the branches pauses to gently
Swing the birds that sweetly, merrily chirp and sing.
And through the starlit night he murmurs till the day
Greets the rosy east and then he steals away, away
In his play and then he steals away.
Gently steals away, away.
Like a mem'ry dim and haunting,
Is the song the wind is chanting,
In the oak-tree's branches, so broad, so high.
That lift themselves so lovingly toward the sky
Then through the pensive chant, a lighter brighter lay
Breathes the frolic wind and then he steals away, away
Gently steals away, away.
You may also like these poems written by Nixon Waterman:
Nature's Promise
by Nixon Waterman
Snow in the valley and snow on the mountain,
And sparkles of frost on the roof and the spire;
The cold moonbeams fall on the ice-prisoned fountain
The sun cannot free with his faint touch of fire.
But the song of the south-wind will waken the clover,
The ring-dove will coo to his mate in the bower;
The frost-fashioned flake, when the winter is over,
A dewdrop will shine in the heart of a flower.
In The Firelight
by Nixon Waterman
The smouldering backlog is nearly in two,
And the forestick is burned to the core;
The embers are blushing a tremulous hue,
While the wind in the chimney goes " woo-oo-oo!
And, sadly, at window and door,
Is sighing that summer is o'er.
And a faint, little whispering, eery and queer,
Brings news I am waiting to know, -
The forces of Winter are marshalling near, -
It says in that strange little language we hear
When the fire is talking of snow.
My babies are blissfully dreaming in bed.
Close-wrapped is each innocent form;
With tender caress their "Good Nights" have been said,
And with blankets soft-tucked round each dear little head.
And cuddled so cozy and warm,
They fear not the breath of the storm.
In front of the fireplace, beaming and bright,
Are their little shoes, all in a row,
Whose travel-worn soles seem to shiver with fright
When the wind hoarsely laughs in the chimney at night
And the fire is talking of snow.
On the shadowy mantel the garrulous clock
Is sifting the seconds away
And solemnly telling me - " Tock, tick, tock " -
It is time I was joining my slumbering flock
Where the drowsy-eyed poppy holds sway;
But I linger to prayerfully say,
"Good angels be near to those treasures of mine
When the tempest shall bitingly blow;
Through all their sweet dreaming bright blossoms entwine;
Bring roses and lilies and summer and shine,
While the fire is talking of snow."
