Crashing into me along the window pane is the wind with whom I love like a gentle, moving vane. Stealing on the nightly cloudy fog a phantom specter rise, filling up the skies with hollow, ghoulish cries. Chasing down into glades grubby little gnomes, snatching at the nymphs whose gleaming lightly gloams. Tragic is the wind who howls and moans so low, he the hunger has will only grow and grow. Stirring up the tempest tide of tidal woes it must, screaming at the moon he cannot win with lust. When drown he dies his groans and cries cease to be no more. Then there is no trace of the wind except the windswept shore.