Again, again, the subtle wind, breathtaking in its splendor,
Just as gracious as a torrent, on hulls of weary ships.
Alas, shall I, resign myself to the hands of my peers?
How often to the fates, reside, my true and destined aim!
Again, must I, cast out my hand, to cold fingers and uncertainties?
And pluck whatever fruit may fall from just beyond the banks?
Within this cave, the blizzard’s binding, stillness settles softly,
Until broken, be the threshold, trodden, by my downtrodden soul.
A catalyst for chaos, like the echoes of the moorlands,
That final cry, that terrifies, the avalanche to waken,
The churning of the boiling ocean, calling forth Leviathan,
The child’s cry, igniting comfort, from the Father’s arms.
No sooner tread my thoughts adrift, than does his Spirit collect me,
As if no thing had gone amiss, as if all things are well.
For there, is no mighty turbulence, that may, harm what he Defends,
And so I call, “Have at you, again! Again, you subtle wind.”