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What Robert Louis Stevenson said about this poem - from the University of Toronto:
Audio version of the poem - Listen at Reely's Audio Poems"I had an extreme terror of Hell, implanted in me, I suppose, by my good nurse, which used to haunt me terribly on stormy nights, when the wind had broken loose and was going about the town like a bedlamite. I remember that the noises on such occasions always grouped themselves for me into the sound of a horseman, or rather a succession of horsemen, riding furiously past the bottom of the street and away up the hill into town; I think even now that I hear the terrible howl of his passage, and the clinking that I used to attribute to his bit and stirrups. On such nights I would lie awake and pray and cry, until I prayed and cried myself asleep" (Graham Balfour, Life of Robert Louis Stevenson)
"WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?"
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Neither I nor you;
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I;
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
The Wind's Work.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it turns the weather vane
East and west this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it blows the windmill's fans
Round and round this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it lifts the kites on high
As we run this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it blows the leaves about
To and fro this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it bends the forest trees
And they bow this way.
Title: A Year Book for Primary Grades: based on Froebel's mother playsThe busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it turns the weather vane
East and west this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it blows the windmill's fans
Round and round this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it lifts the kites on high
As we run this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it blows the leaves about
To and fro this way.
The busy wind we cannot see
At its work or play,
But it bends the forest trees
And they bow this way.
Authors: Etta Merrick Graves, Amelia Warfield Watkins, Rupert W. Graves
Publisher: M. Bradley company, 1908
Pages 159-160
NOTE: The Wind's Work - Daily Printing Practice - See below the jump (end of post)*****
THE WIND THAT SHAKES THE BARLEY
There's music in my heart all day,
I hear it late and early,
It comes from fields are far away,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
Above the uplands drenched with dew,
The sky hangs soft and pearly,
An emerald world is listening to
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
Above the bluest mountain crest
The lark is singing rarely,
It rocks the singer into rest,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
Oh, still through summers and through springs
It calls me late and early.
Come home, come home, come home, it sings,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
There's music in my heart all day,
I hear it late and early,
It comes from fields are far away,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
Above the uplands drenched with dew,
The sky hangs soft and pearly,
An emerald world is listening to
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
Above the bluest mountain crest
The lark is singing rarely,
It rocks the singer into rest,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
Oh, still through summers and through springs
It calls me late and early.
Come home, come home, come home, it sings,
The wind that shakes the barley.
Ochone!
Title: The Wind in the Trees: A Book of Country Verse
Author: Katharine Tynan
Publisher: Grant Richards, 1898
Pages 57-58
THE WIND
The wind, the wind,
The mourning wind!
It comes and grieves
About my eaves
It knocks and groans
It cries and moans,
And the chilly moon
Rides aloft at noon
In the mourning, mourning wind.
The wind, the wind,
The raining wind!
Thro' dripping sprays
And grass-wet ways
It winds and lifts
It weaves and shifts,
And I walk apart
Where the storm-rills start
In the raining, raining wind.
The wind, the wind,
The summer wind I
In idle ease
Thro' weeds and trees
It wafts and woos
It soothes and sues,
And I fall asleep
Where the grass is deep
In the summer, summer wind.
The wind, the wind,
The thieving wind!
It whisks and starts
It scuds and darts
It whips the vanes
It shakes the panes,
And the apples fall
Where the weeds are tall
In the thieving, thieving wind.
The wind, the wind,
The winter wind!
It sweeps and soars
It howls and roars
It drives the snow
It piles the floe,
And the drifting sky
Runs gainless and dry
In the winter, winter wind.
The wind, the wind,
The midnight wind!
When night hours wane
And star-hosts reign
In monotone
It moves alone,
And nobody knows
Where the dead world blows
In the midnight, midnight wind.
The wind, the wind,
The mourning wind!
It comes and grieves
About my eaves
It knocks and groans
It cries and moans,
And the chilly moon
Rides aloft at noon
In the mourning, mourning wind.
The wind, the wind,
The raining wind!
Thro' dripping sprays
And grass-wet ways
It winds and lifts
It weaves and shifts,
And I walk apart
Where the storm-rills start
In the raining, raining wind.
The wind, the wind,
The summer wind I
In idle ease
Thro' weeds and trees
It wafts and woos
It soothes and sues,
And I fall asleep
Where the grass is deep
In the summer, summer wind.
The wind, the wind,
The thieving wind!
It whisks and starts
It scuds and darts
It whips the vanes
It shakes the panes,
And the apples fall
Where the weeds are tall
In the thieving, thieving wind.
The wind, the wind,
The winter wind!
It sweeps and soars
It howls and roars
It drives the snow
It piles the floe,
And the drifting sky
Runs gainless and dry
In the winter, winter wind.
The wind, the wind,
The midnight wind!
When night hours wane
And star-hosts reign
In monotone
It moves alone,
And nobody knows
Where the dead world blows
In the midnight, midnight wind.
Title: Wind and Weather
Author: Liberty Hyde Bailey
Publisher: Comstock Publishing Co., 1919
Pages 17-19
NOTE: The Wind - Vocabulary Work - See below the jump (end of post) *****
THE PIPER ON THE HILL
A Child's Song
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill
The frightened people say:
"The wind, the wind is blowing up
'Tis rising to a gale."
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill:
"The wind, the wind is coming south
'Twill blow a gentle day."
They gather on the meadow-land
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm:
"The snow, the snow has come at last!
The happy children call,
And "ring around" they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
The Wind and the Moon
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
Dora Sigerson Shorter
A Child's Song
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill
The frightened people say:
"The wind, the wind is blowing up
'Tis rising to a gale."
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill:
"The wind, the wind is coming south
'Twill blow a gentle day."
They gather on the meadow-land
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm:
"The snow, the snow has come at last!
The happy children call,
And "ring around" they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
The Wind and the Moon
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
Dora Sigerson Shorter
THE WIND AND THE MOON
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out
You stare
In the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about—
I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep
On a heap
Of clouds to sleep,
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high
In the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge,
And my wedge,
I have knocked off her edge!
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff
More's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.
In the air
Nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone—
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more;
On down.
In town,
Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar—
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;
But in vain
Was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew—till she filled the night,
And shone
On her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath,
Good faith!
I blew her to death"—
First blew her away right out of the sky—
Then blew her in; what strength have I!"
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out
You stare
In the air
Like a ghost in a chair,
Always looking what I am about—
I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.
So, deep
On a heap
Of clouds to sleep,
Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,
Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again!
On high
In the sky,
With her one ghost eye,
The Moon shone white and alive and plain.
Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.
"With my sledge,
And my wedge,
I have knocked off her edge!
If only I blow right fierce and grim,
The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread.
"One puff
More's enough
To blow her to snuff!
One good puff more where the last was bred,
And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.
In the air
Nowhere
Was a moonbeam bare;
Far off and harmless the shy stars shone—
Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more;
On down.
In town,
Like a merry-mad clown,
He leaped and halloed with whistle and roar—
"What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;
But in vain
Was the pain
Of his bursting brain;
For still the broader the Moon-scrap grew,
The broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew—till she filled the night,
And shone
On her throne
In the sky alone,
A matchless, wonderful silvery light,
Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!
With my breath,
Good faith!
I blew her to death"—
First blew her away right out of the sky—
Then blew her in; what strength have I!"
by George MacDonald
Title: The Home Book of Verse, American and English, 1580-1918, Volume 1
Compiled by: Burton Egbert Stevenson
Edition: 3
Publisher: H. Holt, 1918
(Google book link)
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CLASSIC LITERATURE
Title: The Wind in the Willows
Author: Kenneth Grahame
Publisher: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915
(Google book Link)
Author: Kenneth Grahame
Publisher: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915
(Google book Link)
Author: Thornton Waldo Burgess
Publisher: Little, Brown, 1913
(Google book Link)
Title: Mother West Wind's Animal Friends
Author: Thornton Waldo Burgess
Publisher: Little, Brown, 1912
Daily Printing Practice and Vocabulary Work -- Below the Jump
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Vocabulary for: The Wind's Work:
Vocabulary Match:
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