Poetic Storm

Faint winds, and a song fading and leaves falling,

Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .

And the rain and over the fields a voice calling . . .

 

One gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above,

Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft her

Sisters on. The shadow of a dove

Falls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings;

And down the valley through the crying trees

The body of the darker storm flies; brings

With its new air the breath of sunken seas

And slender tenuous thunder . . .

But I wait . . .

Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain--

Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate,

Happier winds that pile her hair;

Again

They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy air

Upon me, winds that I know, and storm.

 

There was a summer every rain was rare;

There was a season every wind was warm . . .

And now you pass me in the mist . . . your hair

Rain-blown about you, damp lips curved once more

In that wild irony, that gay despair

That made you old when we have met before;

Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain,

Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers,

With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again--

Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours

(Whispers will creep into the growing dark . . .

Tumult will die over the trees)

Now night

Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse

Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright,

To cover with her hair the eerie green . . .

Love for the dusk . . . Love for the glistening after;

Quiet the trees to their last tops . . . serene . . .

 

Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .

 

 

Summer Storm

F. Scott Fitzgerald

AINT winds, and a song fading and leaves falling,Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .And the rain and over the fields a voice calling . . . One gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above,Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft herSisters on. The shadow of a doveFalls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings;And down the valley through the crying treesThe body of the darker storm flies; bringsWith its new air the breath of sunken seasAnd slender tenuous thunder . . .

But I wait . . .

Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain--Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate,Happier winds that pile her hair;

Again

They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy airUpon me, winds that I know, and storm. There was a summer every rain was rare;There was a season every wind was warm . . .And now you pass me in the mist . . . your hairRain-blown about you, damp lips curved once moreIn that wild irony, that gay despairThat made you old when we have met before;Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain,Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers,With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again--Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours(Whispers will creep into the growing dark . . .Tumult will die over the trees)

Now night

Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouseOf day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright,To cover with her hair the eerie green . . .Love for the dusk . . . Love for the glistening after;Quiet the trees to their last tops . . . serene . . . Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .
Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/f/a_poem_amory_sent_to_eleanor.html#SfgMHRqfw1zEs4u2.99

AINT winds, and a song fading and leaves falling,Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .And the rain and over the fields a voice calling . . . One gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above,Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft herSisters on. The shadow of a doveFalls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings;And down the valley through the crying treesThe body of the darker storm flies; bringsWith its new air the breath of sunken seasAnd slender tenuous thunder . . .

But I wait . . .

Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain--Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate,Happier winds that pile her hair;

Again

They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy airUpon me, winds that I know, and storm. There was a summer every rain was rare;There was a season every wind was warm . . .And now you pass me in the mist . . . your hairRain-blown about you, damp lips curved once moreIn that wild irony, that gay despairThat made you old when we have met before;Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain,Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers,With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again--Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours(Whispers will creep into the growing dark . . .Tumult will die over the trees)

Now night

Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouseOf day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright,To cover with her hair the eerie green . . .Love for the dusk . . . Love for the glistening after;Quiet the trees to their last tops . . . serene . . . Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .
Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/f/a_poem_amory_sent_to_eleanor.html#SfgMHRqfw1zEs4u2.99

AINT winds, and a song fading and leaves falling,Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .And the rain and over the fields a voice calling . . . One gray blown cloud scurries and lifts above,Slides on the sun and flutters there to waft herSisters on. The shadow of a doveFalls on the cote, the trees are filled with wings;And down the valley through the crying treesThe body of the darker storm flies; bringsWith its new air the breath of sunken seasAnd slender tenuous thunder . . .

But I wait . . .

Wait for the mists and for the blacker rain--Heavier winds that stir the veil of fate,Happier winds that pile her hair;

Again

They tear me, teach me, strew the heavy airUpon me, winds that I know, and storm. There was a summer every rain was rare;There was a season every wind was warm . . .And now you pass me in the mist . . . your hairRain-blown about you, damp lips curved once moreIn that wild irony, that gay despairThat made you old when we have met before;Wraith-like you drift on out before the rain,Across the fields, blown with the stemless flowers,With your old hopes, dead leaves and loves again--Dim as a dream and wan with all old hours(Whispers will creep into the growing dark . . .Tumult will die over the trees)

Now night

Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouseOf day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright,To cover with her hair the eerie green . . .Love for the dusk . . . Love for the glistening after;Quiet the trees to their last tops . . . serene . . . Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter . . .
Read more at http://www.poetry-archive.com/f/a_poem_amory_sent_to_eleanor.html#SfgMHRqfw1zEs4u2.99