Here comes the little wind

That wiped out the honest Socrates

And raised the shifty one back up,

The one that, coming down the street,

Upends the lonely secretary’s skirt,

And whispers on her silky leg

Directly to the trouble spot,

Before her fingers work it out,

Then by the roadside

Who sets free the dazed policeman’s ticket book,

So leaves and carbon leaves can sweep the street on

benevolent wings,

who at the bus stop

stirs the trash and poison gas

across the honest burghers’ faces

that turn together like weathercocks

and wait as only they can wait

for solider, upstanding days,

who through the heaps of chattering leaves,

and from the still-green trees,

and in the rust,

just as the alto plays the changes

little wind

plays the same:

“up, end!

“be little, wings!

Let it rain, let it rain!”