Algernon Charles Swinburne

“ All the solitude sighs and expects with a blind expectation
⁠Somewhat unknown of its own sad heart, grown heart-sick of strife:
Till sometime its wild heart maddens, and moans, and the vast ululation
⁠Takes wing with the clouds on the waters, and wails to be quit of its life.
For the spirit and soul of the waste is the wind, and his wings with their waving
⁠Darken and lighten the darkness and light of it thickened or thinned;
But the heart that impels them is even as a conqueror's insatiably craving
⁠That victory can fill not, as power cannot satiate the want of the wind. ”

“ Loftier, aloft of the lights of the sunset stricken and dwindled,
⁠Gather the signs of the love at the heart of the night new-made.
New-made night, new-born of the sunset, immeasurable, endless,
⁠Opens the secret of love hid from of old in her heart,
In the deep sweet heart full-charged with faultless love of the friendless
⁠Spirits of men that are eased when the wheels of the sun depart. ”

“ But the will of the wind works ever as his that desires what he knows not,
⁠And the wail of his want unfulfilled is as one making moan for her child.
And the cry of his triumph is even as the crying of hunger that maddens
⁠The heart of a strong man aching in vain as the wind's heart aches
And the sadness itself of the land for its infinite solitude saddens
⁠More for the sound than the silence athirst for the sound that slakes. ”