The Wind, How The Wind Neighs, How Slow Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The wind, how the wind neighs, how slow
How stale the bosom of the lake
How rare the rustling of the breeze
In the oak trees.

The sun shines faint, the clouds how grey
They turn, how still scarce moving they
And in the poplar trees in row
A yellow leaf falls every now and then.

How dull the day, how quaint
The slow-gurgling water falls
From the still mill, a solitary bee
Or bird flies now and then
Into the quiet.

No animals their sittings hold
On the lea that greened some months ago
And now from the Far East
A chill wind starts to blow.

‘Tis not yet Winter, ‘tis not yet frost
The trees are not bare, but still
And rare the rustling of the breeze
In the oak trees.

The owl on her old bough full staring sits
And looks and looks but does not stir or move.

The moon will soon shine languid-sick.
How stale the bosom of the lake
How rare the rustlings of the breeze
In the oak trees.