The winds are in the wood again to-day,
Not moaning as they moan among bare boughs
In winter dark, nor baying as they bay
When hunting in full moon, the spring to rouse;

Nor as in summer, soft: the insistent rain
Hisses the woe of my void life to me;
And the winds jibe me for my anguish vain,
Sibilant, like waters of the washing sea.