Why O wrathful north wind thou

The marshy shrub dost downward bend?

Why thus in the distant sky-vault

Wrathfully the cloud dost chase?

The black clouds but recently

Had spread the whole heavens o’er

The oak on hill top but recently

In beauty wondrous itself was priding.

Thou hast risen and up hast played

With terror resounded and with splendor—

And away are driven the stormy clouds;

Down is hurled the mighty oak.

Let now then the sun’s clear face

With joy henceforth ever shine

With the clouds now the zephyr play

And the bush in quiet sway.