<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="center" class="head">Song of the Winds</h1><p class="byline"> MARY LANIER MAGRUDER <br xmlns:exist="http://exist.sourceforge.net/NS/exist" xmlns:html="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"/><span class="smallcaps">IN The Saturday Evening Post</span><br xmlns:exist="http://exist.sourceforge.net/NS/exist" xmlns:html="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"/>Permission to reproduce in this book</p><div class="stanza"><p class="line">SONG of the west wind whispering--listen </p><p class="line">The murmuring waves of the golden grain; </p><p class="line">The lisp of rivers that ripple and glisten, </p><p class="line">Filled to brim with the night's wild rain, </p><p class="line">Seaward going to come again, </p><p class="line">Pouring the torrents of spring on the acres </p><p class="line">Fallow and fertile. The wide world's bread </p><p class="line">Harvested now by the busy Takers, </p><p class="line">Gleaners afield when the dawn is red; </p><p class="line">Wind of the west, where the leaning sheaves </p><p class="line">Darken the shadows as daylight leaves </p><p class="line">Or heap the granary under the eaves, </p><p class="line">Sing the song to us over and over, </p><p class="line">Happy harvests and multifold, </p><p class="line">Sweeter than breath of thyme or clover. </p><p class="line">Western wind over sheaves of gold!</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Wind of the south from the wide prairie, </p><p class="line">Mesquite barren and cactus lean, </p><p class="line">Where the fleet herds browse and the coyote warv </p><p class="line">Pierces the night with a note too keen; </p><p class="line">And the brown plain's grass grows all between. </p><p class="line">Fields where the wild sage blows and billows, </p><p class="line">Purple waves on a sea of jade; </p><p class="line">And the bending cottonwoods touch the willows, </p><p class="line">And the water holes glimmer in light and shade. </p><p class="line">Then swinging up from a land of drouth, </p><p class="line">And on by the bayous flowing south,</p><p class="line">There by the wandering river's mouth. </p><p class="line">White is the sod with the cotton blossom, </p><p class="line">Whiter the lint that has broken its pod </p><p class="line">And lies like snow on the sad earth's bosom, </p><p class="line">Fresh and fair from the hand of God.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Wind of the north from the long lakes sweeping </p><p class="line">Down to the meadows and hills of corn,</p><p class="line">Over the creeks where the perch are leaping, </p><p class="line">And the mill wheels hum at the break of morn; </p><p class="line">Hills where the clover is newly shorn; </p><p class="line">And sharply pungent as old-world gorse is </p><p class="line">The hay that the wagons have hurried home; </p><p class="line">And under the steady feet of the horses </p><p class="line">The furrows grow in the loose black loam. </p><p class="line">And ever the amber tassels seize </p><p class="line">The wings of every riotous breeze </p><p class="line">To fling gonfalons of golden sleaze, </p><p class="line">Silken and soft, to the earth's far borders: </p><p class="line">"August heat but hastens the days </p><p class="line">When the hungry herds and the empty larders </p><p class="line">Shall all be filled with the Indian's maize."</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Wind of the east--ah, east wind blowing </p><p class="line">Long, long leagues from a land o'erseas; </p><p class="line">Empty hands that can know no sowing, </p><p class="line">Passionate pleading hands are these--</p><p class="line">Palms outstretched to us over the seas; </p><p class="line">Ah, the heart of France is a thing to cherish! </p><p class="line">But her werewolf, Hunger, cannot be slain </p><p class="line">Till out of our largess, lest she perish, </p><p class="line">We hasten the caravels of blessed grain.</p><p class="line">Till the sea-shark's teeth forever are drawn,</p><p class="line">And the dread great guns are stilled at the dawn. </p><p class="line">We must hold high courage and carry on.</p><p class="line">So winds of the north, south, vest, your treasure--</p><p class="line">Corn arid cattle and golden grain--</p><p class="line">Shall crowd the ships to their fullest measure,</p><p class="line">And the bread thus cast will return again! </p></div></body></html> · Great War