Classic Poem

The restless wind is tired, Willie,
Of singing among the leaves.
And longs to shriek in the shrouds, Willie,
Out where the mammoth cleaves.

The roving wind is rude, Willie,
And wanton with love of me,
It makes a sail of my gown, Willie,
To billow me out to sea.

But the crags are cruel steep, Willie,
And cold are the rocks below,
And lost I should be for aye, Willie,
Did my lover once let me go.

And the wind doth veer and change, Willie,
And wide is the world of sea,
And should I be left to drift, Willie,
Where then would by biding be.