The winds to me obedient
I keep: all cold and tempest shocks
Follow me and are my flocks;
Scourge of every element
Am I, master of the moon;
Frost and ice obey my call
That am the high admiral
Of ships with which the sea is strewn.
Though my look your mind estranges
As if I a ruffian were,
I can fill with black the air
And with white the mountain-ranges.
All the pleasant shade I strip
From beneath the chestnut-trees,
And the hermits, as I please,
To their lairs like foxes skip,
To decay I turn the pears,
And the fresh, green woods destroy;
The strawberry-plants grow red with joy
And the roses fill with tears.
Sound of bells aloud, afar,
Through the countryside I ring;
To nightingales I silence bring,
Frogs and crickets silent are.
Windows closed at my breath
And doors Be just and unjust keep,
And I make the orchards weep
In sorrow for the gardens' death.
Yellow and thin the vines with age
And rivers of the streams I make,
Of each thresbing-floor a lake,
A cistern of each hermitage.