XXX.

THE WIND'S VISIT.

The wind tapped like a tired man, And like a host, "Come in," I boldly answered; entered then My residence within

A rapid, footless guest, To offer whom a chair Were as impossible as hand A sofa to the air.

No bone had he to bind him, His speech was like the push Of numerous humming-birds at once From a superior bush.

His countenance a billow, His fingers, if he pass, Let go a music, as of tunes Blown tremulous in glass.

He visited, still flitting; Then, like a timid man, Again he tapped -- 't was flurriedly -- And I became alone.

Nature rarer uses yellow Than another hue; Saves she all of that for sunsets, -- Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman, Yellow she affords Only scantly and selectly, Like a lover's words.