At Night

The wind is singing through the trees to-night,

A deep-voiced song of rushing cadences

And crashing intervals. No summer breeze

Is this, though hot July is at its height,

Gone is her gentler music; with delight

She listens to this booming like the seas,

These elemental, loud necessities

Which call to her to answer their swift might.

Above the tossing trees shines down a star,

Quietly bright; this wild, tumultuous joy

Quickens nor dims its splendour. And my mind,

O Star! is filled with your white light, from far,

So suffer me this one night to enjoy

The freedom of the onward sweeping wind.
--Amy Lowell