How | love the dim wind on the wide water; but as for that, what 
wind do | not love, and for what one do I not listen, whether singing a 
quiet song or trumpeting in Titan anger; whether it is gentle touch, like 
a beloved hand upon our sleeping cheek, or cruel and vindictive, like a 
Scythian—nay, I can not deny that | love them all. 
What musicians winds are! They are, in truth, the only musicians. 
All voices, whether human or blown from instruments, or shocked from 
A PATCH OF CLOVER WHERE SPRING WINDS LINGER 
wild waves that hammer on the rocks, what are they save the blowing 
of the winds? Lowell says 
‘The organ blows its dream of storm,” 
and no more accurate word has ever been spoken regarding organ 
music, which is the wind blowing across the reeds. | have sat in 
cathedrals in the lowering dusk and felt the organ blow its gathering gale 
about my spirit. The organ was the wind of God. The Devas play: 
“We are the voices of the wandering wind 
Which moan for rest and rest can never find,"’ 
and they are sad 
‘As sunset in a land of reeds,’’ 
103 
