I want stanza wise summary of poem ' The Wind in the Frolic
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THE WIND one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!
I ’ll make a commotion in every place!”
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, 5
Creaking the signs, and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread stalls:
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges tumbled about; 10
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows, 15
And tossed the colts’ manes all over their brows,
Till, offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute.
So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks,
Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks, 20
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king’s highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags:
Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a mad-cap galloping chase!
I ’ll make a commotion in every place!”
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, 5
Creaking the signs, and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread stalls:
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges tumbled about; 10
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
Forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming;
It plucked by the tails the grave matronly cows, 15
And tossed the colts’ manes all over their brows,
Till, offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs and stood sulkily mute.
So on it went, capering, and playing its pranks,
Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks, 20
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king’s highway.
It was not too nice to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags:
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