The Robber Wind

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    I think the wind
    Must be a thief.
    He takes a hat,
    He takes a leaf,
    And whirls away
    Beyond my reach.
    Sometimes he softly
    Tiptoes by,
    Then twirls around
    And flips my tie
    Or blows a cinder
    In my eye.
    At times he roars
    And beats his chest,
    And that’s the time
    I love him best—
    When he comes
    Skirling from the west.