The swaying treetops shiver in the blast
Of chilly air pushed forth by autumn squalls.
A brace of spirits rides that windy path,
And howls its glee at slipping from Death’s thrall.
The glens and forests darken under veils
Of sullen clouds and needle-points of rain;
The school itself appears to fear the gale,
And students huddle close and hope in vain
For clearing skies and fast-abating storms,
An expeditious caging of the winds,
A rousing game and players in good form,
A pleasant day for Quidditch to begin.
Alas, poor children, wishes are but dust
When Nature does as Nature surely must.