28
ust hearing and speaking these honest
lines is enough. Or better, singing them from this poem’s early manuscript.
You can hear and see the melody reaching its highest pitch and longest hold at
the very thought of “bed,” then hastening home on a wavelike cadence, eight
notes running through one syllable: “a- gai... ai... ai... ai... ai... ai...
ai... ain!” (plate 3)
“Western Wind,” sixteenth-century manuscript.
The British Library Board. All rights reserved, A601.“Western wind, when will thou blow”
Anon Was an Environmentalist
Western wind, when will thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
Christ! if my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!J