All through the night the wind lies still,
Curbing the strength of an eager will;
Morning finds it humming through the trees ...
Tuning up fiddle strings quite at ease,
Trying out the frail lutes
Made of hollow reeds.

Where the winding brook its amber yields,
Reapers garner hay from gold-brown fields;
Crimson leaves await a rough caress ...
Hoping for a moment of tenderness:
Wind can be a sharp flail,
Or may croon and kiss.

Hear the gale sweep forth in strength and might,
See the swift-winged swallows take to flight;
Hear the contention among the trees
Driven before it with conquering ease,-
Made to pay rich homage,
Stripped of golden leaves!

Wearying of such a toilsome life,
Watch it put an end to noise and strife,-
Tip-toeing softly its strength to yield
Mid saffron pumpkins in a brown field;
Combing tangled marsh grass,
Tranquil now ... and stilled.