Wind in Fir Trees

Sweeping, sighing away
Over the fir-trees gray.
Sweeping, grating, sighing away!
As one that seeketh not to find
Thou ravest through the pines, O Wind;
Across the pines I hear thee rave
Sick as a madman for his grave;
And I have caught thee in the West,
Coming from thy prayer unblest,
Coming from the sun at rest,
With the tedium in thy cry
Of a breath that cannot die,
With the rancour in thy glee
Of a god who has lost his memory
In search of the things that were wont to be.