Breakers and granite / by John Gould Fletcher [electronic text]

THE SONG OF THE WIND

The wind that sizzles through the withered stalks of grasses in the heat of midsummer. The wind that comes up humming, buzzing, singing, tingling, ringing through the treeless plains. The wind that whispers its refrain from far away in the quivering heat. The wind that tosses the scarlet poppies and golden beards of wheat apart and flings them laughingly into the panting heart of the sky.

O, my soul of purple and gold, the earth is green, the sun is gold!

The wind that whoops, ho! ho! in the noonday. The wind that rattles like cavalry advancing. The wind that stamps and dances on the wrinkled face of earth, making it grin in a yellow smile. The wind that stops awhile and then comes on in multitudes, flickering, licking dry wavelets, screaming fighting, tingling, tossing, clanging, prowling, growling, howling, rasping, soaring, crashing and ebbing away. The wind that frays out the upper to plume-streamers of spray and spatters the sunlight in one blinding wave at my feet.

O my soul of scarlet and gold, the earth is white, the sun is gold!

The wind that flings sudden sharp spurts of glistening sand against the purple walls of afternoon. The wind that curls and murmurs evenly, pausing, retreating as if it sought a tree. The wind of the desert sounding, rebounding, twanging one low string against the stillness. The wind that shrieks in pain once and again as if touched by a sputter of flame from the sun's torch. The wind that blows steadily through the blue porch of evening dry and languid reedy complaints.

O my soul of the blue and gold, the earth is cold, the sky is cold!

The wind that spins the stars upward in mad scattered chase of white flakes against the night. The wind that strews the earth with the green-grey ashes of the moon. The wind that screeches out of tune, dying away to an eerie whine like rockets plunging down in the darkness. The wind that comes from nowhere and suddenly bursts the blue-black bubble of hot air. The wind that quavers restlessly. The wind that stirs and flutters and starts with a jump, plunging away frantically into darkness. The wind that pours the emptiness of night down upon the earth in one black toppling

wave, through which the stars roar and smoke. The wind that chokes you with its thunderous cannonade.

Oh my soul of black and gold, the wind has pierced me with its shrilling arrows—its arrows barbed with scarlet, green and gold!

Summer, 1915.