having just awakened amid the vast and vague 

 on another planet. But when the long, white even- 

 ing light streams from the west between the 

 minarets, and the black buttressed crags wear the 

 alpine glow, one's feelings are too deep for words. 

 The wind sometimes flowed like a torrent across 

 the ridges, surging and ripping between the min- 

 arets, then bearing down like an avalanche upon 

 the purple sylvan ocean, where it tossed the trees 

 with boom, roar, and wild commotion. I usually 

 camped where it showed the most enthusiasm. 

 Here I often enjoyed the songs or the fierce 

 activities of the wind. The absence and the pre- 

 sence of wind ever stirred me strongly. Weird and 

 strange are the feelings that flow as the winds 

 sweep and sound through the trees. The Storm 

 King has a bugle at his lips, and a deep, elemental 

 hymn is sung while the blast surges wild through 

 the pines. Mother Nature is quietly singing, sing- 

 ing soft and low while the breezes pause and play 

 in the pines. From the past one has been ever 

 coming, with the future destined ever to go when, 

 with centuries of worshipful silence, one waits for 

 the winds in the pines. Ever the good old world 



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