She is not the rain,
tho’ she may oft cry
with such thunderous wail,
that one may suffer sorrow
as if standing waist deep
in a sea of all her tears.

She is not the wind,
tho’ she may oft sigh
with such fiercesome gail,
that one may beg or borrow
from her breathless keep,
and breathe away their fears.

She is not the sky,
tho’ she may oft fly
with such wonderous sail,
that one may see tomorrow
in dreams, within sleep,
thus winged, fly for years.