I would like to stay with the subject of the wind in the leaves a moment longer by considering a poem by Robert Frost. Frost visited the image of trees and wind (and their sound) on more than one occasion. In fact, one of his poems (which appeared here in May of last year) is titled "The Sound of the Trees." On the same theme, here is another:
Tree at My Window
Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.
Vague dream-head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.
But, tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.
Robert Frost, West-Running Brook (1928).
"Still Life by a Window with The Listener"
Frost seems to be of two minds about the tree. Is he wary of the pathetic fallacy? Of anthropomorphism? But, then again, Frost is nearly always of two minds about most things. Just like his friend Edward Thomas.
On the one hand, he suggests that the tree has nothing of importance to say: "Not all your light tongues talking aloud/Could be profound." Nonetheless, he feels an affinity with the tree (which is "taken and tossed" -- just as Frost is "taken and swept/And all but lost" in his sleep). Perhaps the tree is, after all, impassive. But still companionable: "But let there never be curtain drawn/Between you and me." One could do worse.
A side-note: Frost was pleased with his rhymes in the final stanza ("about her"/"with outer"). Of the stanza, he said: "No matter what I think it means, I'm infatuated with the way the rhymes come off here." Reginald Cook, Robert Frost: A Living Voice (University of Massachusetts Press 1974), page 125.
"The Garden Window" (c. 1940)