The Wind didn't come from the Orchard-today-
Further than that-
Nor stop to play with the Hay-
Nor joggle a Hat-
He's a transitive fellow-very-
Rely on that-

If He leave a Bur at the door
We know He has climbed a Fir-
But the Fir is Where-Declare-
Were you ever there?

If He brings Odors of Clovers-
And that is His business-not Ours-
Then He has been with the Mowers-
Whetting away the Hours
To sweet pauses of Hay-
His Way-of a June Day-

If He fling Sand, and Pebble-
Little Boys Hats-and Stubble-
With an occasional Steeple-
And a hoarse "Get out of the way, I say,"
Who'd be the fool to stay?
Would you-Say-
Would you be the fool to stay?