The Wind didn’t come from the Orchard—today— Further than that— Nor stop to play with the Hay— Nor joggle a Hat— He’s a transitive fellow—very— Rely on that—
If He leave a Bur at the door We know He has climbed a Fir— But the Fir is Where—Declare— Were you ever there?
If He brings Odors of Clovers— And that is His business—not Ours— Then He has been with the Mowers— Whetting away the Hours To sweet pauses of Hay— His Way—of a June Day—
If He fling Sand, and Pebble— Little Boys Hats—and Stubble— With an occasional Steeple— And a hoarse “Get out of the way, I say,” Who’d be the fool to stay? Would you—Say— Would you be the fool to stay?
