THERE'S a rogue at play in my sunlit room, And scarcely he rests from fun; Floor, window, shelf, or closet's gloom All are to him as one. He opens the books and peeps within, The paper turns inside out, Snatches my thread, and thinks no sin To throw my work about. He clutches the curtains and whisks them down, Then pulls at the picture cords, Tosses my hair in the way of his own, Nor heeds my coaxing words. I wonder if one so glad and young Will ever be prim and old? He answers not, for he has no tongue— Yet tells sweet tales as are told. He climbs the walls, yet has no feet; No wings, but flies the same; No hands, no head, but breath so sweet— For West Wind is his name. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ROBINSON CRUSOE by MOTHER GOOSE GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: THE JOY OF CHURCH FELLOWSHIP RIGHTLY ATTENDED by EDWARD TAYLOR EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 26. PLATONIC LOVE by PHILIP AYRES AND LOCUSTS BLOOM TOMORROW by MILDRED TELFORD BARNWELL THE END OF THE WORLD by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON |