21 Refreshing Poems About the Wind

Photo of author
Updated on

Here are my favorite poems about the wind categorized:

  • Famous poems about the wind
  • Poems about the wind and love
  • Poems about the wind blowing

So if you want the best poems about the wind, then you are in the right place.

Let’s get started!

21 Best Poems About the Wind (Handpicked)

Refreshing Poems About the Wind

Experience the power and beauty of the wind through this carefully curated collection of the best handpicked poems about the wind, categorized for easy exploration.

From classic works that celebrate the awe-inspiring force of the wind to contemporary pieces that explore the many ways in which the wind shapes our lives and the world around us, these poems offer a glimpse into the many facets of this natural wonder.

Whether you’re looking to reflect on the beauty of a gentle breeze or the awe-inspiring power of a raging storm, this collection has something for everyone.

So sit back, relax, and let the wind carry you away as you explore the best poems about the wind in one place.

Let’s dig into it!

My #1 Favorite Poem About the Wind

Beautiful woman in dress running in the mountains.

“The Wind” by Sara Teasdale

A wind is blowing over my soul,
I hear it cry the whole night through,
Is there no peace for me on earth
Except with you?

Alas, the wind has made me wise,
Over my naked soul it blew,
There is no peace for me on earth
Even with you.

Famous Poems About the Wind

Lone willow tree by the lake, branches swaying blown by the wind.

“The Wind” by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

It’s like the light, —
A fashionless delight
It’s like the bee, —
A dateless melody.

It’s like the woods,
Private like breeze,
Phraseless, yet it stirs
The proudest trees.

It’s like the morning, —
Best when it’s done, —
The everlasting clocks
Chime noon.

“The Soul of the Sea” by Clark Ashton Smith

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.

“The Wind in the Pines” by Madison Julius Cawein

When winds go organing through the pines
On hill and headland, darkly gleaming,
Meseems I hear sonorous lines
Of Iliads that the woods are dreaming.

Sunset at Cape Coral Florida

“The Winds of Fate” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

One ship drives east and another drives west
With the self-same winds that blow;
‘Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
That tells them the way to go.

Like the winds of the sea are the winds of fate
As we voyage along through life;
‘Tis the set of the soul
That decides its goal
And not the calm or the strife.

“The Wind of the World” by George MacDonald

Chained is the Spring. The Night-wind bold
Blows over the hard earth;
Time is not more confused and cold,
Nor keeps more wintry mirth.

Yet blow, and roll the world about–
Blow, Time, blow, winter’s Wind!
Through chinks of time heaven peepeth out,
And Spring the frost behind.

“The Wind and The Moon” by Clark Ashton Smith

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 races adown the darkened sky,
With scurry of broken clouds that seek,
Borne on the wings of the hastening wind,
A place of rest that they never can find.
And around the face of the moon they cling,
Its fugitive face to veil they aspire;
But ever and ever it peereth out,
Rending the cloud-ranks that hem it about;
And it seemeth a lost and phantom thing,
Like a phantom of dead desire.

a cheerful lady running in a apples garden hair is blown by the wind

“The Wind” by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody

The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.

When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,

I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,

As if some caravan of sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.

Poems About the Wind and Love

Man and woman in love holding hands as they walk on a breezy beach.

“Winds of May” by James Joyce

Winds of May, that dance on the sea,
Dancing a ring-around in glee
From furrow to furrow, while overhead
The foam flies up to be garlanded,
In silvery arches spanning the air,
Saw you my true love anywhere?
Welladay! Welladay!
For the winds of May!
Love is unhappy when love is away

“Wind and Window Flower” by Robert Frost

Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the caged yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow,
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
But he sighed upon the sill,
He gave the sash a shake,
As witness all within
Who lay that night awake.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.

“The Winds of Angus” by George William Russell

The grey road whereupon we trod became as holy ground:
The eve was all one voice that breathed its message with no sound:
And burning multitudes pour through my heart, too bright, too blind,
Too swift and hurried in their flight to leave their tale behind.
Twin gates unto that living world, dark honey-coloured eyes
The lifting of whose lashes flushed the face with paradise–
Beloved, there I saw within their ardent rays unfold
The likeness of enraptured birds that flew from deeps of gold
To deeps of gold within my breast to rest or there to be
Transfigured in the light, or find a death to life in me.
So love, a burning multitude, a seraph wind which blows
From out the deep of being to the deep of being goes:
And sun and moon and starry fires and earth and air and sea
Are creatures from the deep let loose who pause in ecstasy,
Or wing their wild and heavenly way until again they find
The ancient deep and fade therein, enraptured, bright and blind.

Beautiful girl smells rose. Portrait of young woman smell roses outdoor.

From “The Wind” by Eugene Field

(The Song)

The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose,
And he wooeth his love to wed:
Sweet is his song
The Summer long
As he kisseth her lips so red;
And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought
When the Summer of love is sped!

“The Winds” by Clark Ashton Smith

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.

Poems About the Wind Blowing

Dry grass and blue lake

“The Wind” by Theodore Harding Rand

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!

“Wind” by Walter R. Cassels

Oh! weird West Wind, that comest from the sea,
Sad with the murmur of the weary waves,
Wand’ring for ever through old ocean caves,
Why troublest thou the hearts that list to thee,
With echoes of forgotten misery?

The night is black with clouds that thou art bringing
From the far waters of the stormy main,
Welling their woes forth wearily in rain,
Betwixt us and the light their dark course winging,
And dreary shadows o’er the spirit flinging.

Whence is thy power to smite the silent heart,
Till as of old the unseal’d waters run?
Whence is thy magic, Oh! thou unseen one,
To make still sorrows from their slumbers start,
And play again, unsought, their bitter part?

We are all one with Nature every breeze
Stealeth about the chambers of the soul,
Haunting their rest with sounds of joy or dole;
And every cloud that creepeth from the seas,
Traileth its shade o’er human sympathies.

Blow! blow, thou weird wind, till the clouds be rent,
And starlight glimmer through the riven seams,
Scatter their darkness like the mist of dreams,
Till all the fleeting, spectre-gloom be spent,
And the bright Future gem the firmament.

Blow! blow! Night’s “Mené Tekel” even now
Glows on her palace-walls, and she shall pass
Like the dim vapour from a burnish’d glass;
And no chill shadows o’er the soul shall go,
Borne by each weeping West Wind to and fro.

“The Mad Wind” by Clark Ashton Smith

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?

Beautiful young woman walking in the misty mountains with her horse.

“The Wind” by Edward Shanks

Blow harder, wind, and drive
My blood from hands and face back to the heart.
Cry over ridges and down tapering coombs,
Carry the flying dapple of the clouds
Over the grass, over the soft-grained plough,
Stroke with ungentle hand the hill’s rough hair
Against its usual set.
Snatch at the reins in my dead hands and push me
Out of my saddle, blow my labouring pony
Across the track. You only drive my blood
Nearer the heart from face and hands, and plant there,
Slowly burning, unseen, but alive and wonderful,
A numb, confused joy!
This little world’s in tumult. Far away
The dim waves rise and wrestle with each other
And fall down headlong on the beach. And here
Quick gusts fly up the funnels of the valleys
And meet their raging fellows on the hill-tops,
And we are in the midst.
This beating heart, enriched with the hands’ blood,
Stands in the midst and feels the warm joy burn
In solitude and silence, while all about
The gusts clamour like living, angry birds,
And the gorse seems hardly tethered to the ground.
Blow louder, wind, about
My square-set house, rattle the windows, lift
The trap-door to the loft above my head
And let it fall, clapping. Yell in the trees,
And throw a rotted elm-branch to the ground,
Flog the dry trailers of my climbing rose–
Make deep, O wind, my rest!

“Wind Rising in the Alleys” by Lola Ridge

Wind rising in the alleys
My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unspent dreams….
You are laden with beginnings….
There is hope in you… not sweet… acrid as blood in the mouth.
Come into my tossing dust
Scattering the peace of old deaths,
Wind rising in the alleys,
Carrying stuff of flame.

“The Wind at Night” by Madison Julius Cawein

Not till the wildman wind is shrill,
Howling upon the hill
In every wolfish tree, whose boisterous boughs,
Like desperate arms, gesture and beat the night,
And down huge clouds, in chasms of stormy white
The frightened moon hurries above the house,
Shall I lie down; and, deep,
Letting the mad wind keep
Its shouting revel round me, fall asleep.

Not till its dark halloo is hushed,
And where wild waters rushed,
Like some hoofed terror underneath its whip
And spur of foam, remains
A ghostly glass, hill-framed; whereover stains
Of moony mists and rains,
And stealthy starbeams, like vague specters, slip;
Shall I, with thoughts that take
Unto themselves the ache
Of silence as a sound, from sleep awake.

“The Wind Was Rough Which Tore” by Emily Brontë

The wind was rough which tore
That leaf from its parent tree
The fate was cruel which bore
The withering corpse to me

We wander on we have no rest
It is a dreary way

What shadow is it
That ever moves before [my] eyes
It has a brow of ghostly whiteness

“The Winds’ Possession” by Maurice Henry Hewlett

When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall,
And the wan sunlight flits before the blast;
When fields are brown and crops are garnered all,
And rooks, like mastered ships, drift wide and fast;
Maid Artemis, that feeleth her young blood
Leap like a freshet river for the sea,
Speedeth abroad with hair blown in a flood
To snuff the salt west wind and wanton free.

Then would you know how brave she is, how high
Her ancestry, how kindred to the wind,
Mark but her flashing feet, her ravisht eye
That takes the boist’rous weather and feels it kind:
And hear her eager voice, how tuned it is
To Autumn’s clarion shrill for Artemis.