Why is it, when the wind blows with a mournful sigh
our hearts are sad, as though we too would cry . . .
But when it whispers soft and low . . .
through leafy trees, we love it so.
Wildly blowing with no clouds across the sky
But just the clear, cold and azure blue . . .
'Tis then we wish to roam or like a bird fly high . . .
until we too, are lost from view.
Drifting fleecy clouds, all soft and white
The shining sun, so warm and bright . . .
Throwing heat waves o'er the fields of grain . . .
Contented we dream, and build new hope again.