Classic Poem

Few folk like the wind's way,
Fewer folk like mine—
Folk who rise at nine,
Who live to drudge and dine,
Who never see the starry light,
And sleep in the same bed each night
Under the same roof:
When the rascal wind and I
Happen to be gadding by,
Gentlefolk so fat and fine
Beg to hold aloof,
Leaving us to starlit beds and husks amid the swine.

Few folk like the wind's song,
Fewer folk like mine—
Folk who trudge the trodden way,
Who keep the track and never stray,
Who think the sun's for making hay,
Folk who cannot dance or play,
Faultless folk and fine.
Yet the wind and I are gay
In our ragamuffin way, singing, storm or shine.