Today was blustery, and along the road I walked I could see and hear the green "unresting castles thresh." I know full well that the World keeps its own counsel. But it is hard not to listen for a message in these leafy, emphatic iterations.
O voice that ever wanderest o'er the earth
Lamenting, roaring, sighing,
Where was thy place of birth,
And where shall be thy dying?
Theresa Whistler (editor), The Collected Poems of Mary Coleridge (1954).
Coleridge's poem is reminiscent of a poem by Wallace Stevens (which has appeared here before):
To the Roaring Wind
What syllable are you seeking,
In the distances of sleep?
Wallace Stevens, Harmonium (1923).
And, on a quieter closing note:
Twilight -- the only conversation
on this hill
Is the wind blowing through the pines.
Ryokan, in John Stevens (translator), One Robe, One Bowl: The Zen Poetry of Ryokan (1977).