Pneumatic

And what to do when Winter's wind,
Pneumatic as the call divine,
Is steadied by a zephyr's heat
Within a bright and humid clime?

Shall I be still, content to stay
As motionless as Summer's hour,
To feast with eyes the green displayed
Awaiting fruit both sweet and sour?

Or shall I move, and risk the ruin
Of my Sabbath rest in chore,
Join the groaning for unveiling
Of the great Redeemer's choir?

I wait and listen for the answer
As the breeze blows on the ground--
Where it comes from and its going
All unknown--but clear the sound.