_Now these are the seven wind songs
For Andrew Straton’s death,
Blown through the reeds of the river,
A sigh of the world’s last breath,_
_Where the flickering red auroras
Out on the dark sweet hills
Follow all night through the forest
The cry of the whip-poor-wills._
_For the meanings of life are many,
But the purpose of love is one,
Journeying, tarrying, lonely
As the sea wind or the sun._
I
Wind of the Northern land,
Wind of the sea,
No more his dearest hand
Comes back to me.
Wind of the Northern gloom,
Wind of the sea,
Wandering waifs of doom
Feckless are we.
Wind of the Northern land,
Wind of the sea,
I cannot understand
How these things be.