The wind is singing through the trees to-night, 
A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences 
And crashing intervals. No summer breeze 
Is this, though hot July is at its height, 
Gone is her gentler music; with delight 
She listens to this booming like the seas, 
These elemental, loud necessities 
Which call to her to answer their swift might. 
Above the tossing trees shines down a star, 
Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy 
Quickens nor dims its splendour. And my mind, 
O Star! is filled with your white light, from far, 
So suffer me this one night to enjoy 
The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.