Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 71

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LXXI HIGH WIND
The clouds before him rushed, as theyWere racing home to end the day;The flying hair of the beeches flewOut to the East as he went through.
Only the hills unshaken stood.The lake was tossed into a flood;She flung her curling wavelets hoarIn wrath on the distracted shore.
Which of the elements hath sinned?What hath angered thee, O wind?Thou in all the earth dost seeNought but it enrageth thee!
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