Wind in the Pine

Oh, I can hear you, God, above the cry
     Of the tossing trees—
Rolling your windy tides across the sky,
     And splashing your silver seas
     Over the pine,
     To the water-line
     Of the moon.
          Oh, I can hear you, God,
     Above the wail of the lonely loon—
     When the pine-tops pitch and nod—
          Chanting your melodies
     Of ghostly waterfalls and avalanches,
Washing your wind among the branches
     To make them pure and white.
Wash over me, God, with your piney breeze,
And your moon’s wet-silver pool;
Wash over me, God, with your wind and night,
     And leave me clean and cool.

--Lew Sarett (1888-1954) American poet and professor