Alec de Candole

(1897-1918 / England)

The Wind That Blustered - Poem by Alec de Candole

The wind that blustered yestermorn,
And swept the ground and shook the treetops,
Then, howling, to the hills forlorn
Passed on, and struck with rain their free tops,
Seems like a mock of Nature's mirth
In scorn of man's strange piteous madness,
That shakes the heaven and scars the earth,
And turns to horror all her gladness.
But when's at end this war of men,
And all the world is at agreement.
Perhaps I'll stand and ponder then.
And wonder what this wild weird dream meant.
Or from life's wilder dream again
If first kind death shall gently wake me.
Or by his harsher angel Pain
With fierce and cruel hand shall take me ;
Still, when I've done with fleshly pain,
And all the earth is left behind me,
Perchance I'll suffer yet again,
And yet again may anguish find me.
Strange paths my soul must yet have trod.
Strange sights beheld, around, above her;
Yet still in all is one same God,
My Shield, my Stay, my King, my Lover.


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Poem Submitted: Saturday, September 25, 2010



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