The Mad Wind

    What hast thou seen, O wind,
    Of beauty or of terror
    Surpassing, denied to us,
    That with precipitate wings,
    Mad and ecstatical,
    Thou spurnest the hollows and trees
    That offer thee refuge of peace,
    And findest within the sky
    No safety nor respite
    From the memory of thy vision?

Clark Ashton Smith

Clark Ashton Smith was an American writer and poet, best known for his contributions to the genres of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. He was a member of the Lovecraft Circle, a group of writers around H.P. Lovecraft. Smith's work was characterized by rich, fantastical imagery and vocabulary. He is considered one of the major writers of weird fiction and a key figure in early American speculative fiction.

Clark Ashton Smith

The Fugitives

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

The Medusa Of The Skies

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

The Night Forest

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

The Masque Of Forsaken Gods

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

English

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The Wind And The Moon

    Oh, list to the wind of the night, oh, hark,
    How it shrieks as it goes on its hurrying quest!
    Forever its voice is a voice of the dark,
    Forever its voice is a voice of unrest.
    Oh, list to the pines as they shiver and sway
    'Neath the ceaseless beat of its myriad wings -
    How they moan and they sob like living things
    That cry in the darkness for light and day!
    Now bend they low as the wind mounts higher,
    And its eerie voice comes piercingly,
    Like the plaint of humanity's misery,
    And its burden of vain desire.
    Now to a sad, tense whisper it fails,
    Then wildly and madly it raves and it wails.

    Oh, the night is filled with its sob and its shriek,
    Its weird and its restless, yearning cry,
    As it ...

Clark Ashton Smith

The Winds

    To me the winds that die and start,
    And strive in wars that never cease,
    Are dearer than the level peace
    That lies unstirred at summer's heart;

    More dear to me the shadowed wold,
    Where, with report of tempest rife,
    The air intensifies with life,
    Than quiet fields of summer's gold.

    I am the winds' admitted friend:
    They seal our linked fellowships
    With speech of warm or icy lips,
    With touch of west and east that blend.

    And when my spirit listless stands,
    With folded wings that do not live,
    Their own assuageless wings they give
    To lift her from the stirless lands.

            *        *        *        *        *

    Within the place unmanifest
    Where centra...

Clark Ashton Smith

The Wind.

    The lithe wind races and sings
        Over the grasses and wheat -
    See the emerald floor as it springs
        To the touch of invisible feet!

    Ah, later, the fir and the pine
        Shall stoop to its weightier tread,
    As it tramps the thundering brine
        Till it shudders and whitens in dread!

    Breath of man! a glass of thine own
        Is the wind on the land, on the sea -
    Joy of life at thy touch! - full grown,
        Destruction and death maybe!

Theodore Harding Rand

The Wind.

The ways of the wind are eerie
And I love them all,
The blithe, the mad, and the dreary,
Spring, Winter, and Fall.

When it tells to the waiting crocus
Its beak to show,
And hangs on the wayside locust
Bloom-bunches of snow.

When it comes like a balmy blessing
From the musky wood,
The half-grown roses caressing
Till their cheeks show blood.

When it roars in the Autumn season,
And whines with rain
Or sleet like a mind without reason,
Or a soul in pain.

When the wood-ways once so spicy
With bud and bloom
Are desolate, sear, and icy
As the icy tomb.

When the wild owl crouched and frowsy
In the rotten tree
Wails dolorous, cold, and drowsy,
His shuddering melody.

Then I love to sit in Decemb...

Madison Julius Cawein

The Soul Of The Sea

    A wind comes in from the sea,
    And rolls through the hollow dark
    Like loud, tempestuous waters.
    As the swift recurrent tide,
    It pours adown the sky,
    And rears at the cliffs of night
    Uppiled against the vast.

    Like the soul of the sea -
    Hungry, unsatisfied
    With ravin of shores and of ships -
    Come forth on the land to seek
    New prey of tideless coasts,
    It raves, made hoarse with desire,
    And the sounds of the night are dumb
    With the sound of its passing.

Clark Ashton Smith

The Night-Wind

I.

I have heard the wind on a winter's night,
When the snow-cold moon looked icily through
My window's flickering firelight,
Where the frost his witchery drew:
I have heard the wind on a winter's night,
Wandering ways that were frozen white,
Wail in my chimney-flue:
And its voice was the voice, so it seemed to me,
The voice of the world's vast misery.

II.

I have heard the wind on a night of spring,
When the leaves unclasped their girdles of gold,
And the bird on the bough sang slumbering,
In the lilac's fragrant fold:
I have heard the wind on a night of spring,
Shaking the musk from its dewy wing,
Sigh in my garden old:
And it seemed that it said, as it sighed above,
"I am the voice of the Earth's great love."

III.

Madison Julius Cawein