Sweeping, sighing away

"Methinks the wind bath spoke aloud." -OTHELLO

SWEEPING, sighing away 
Over the fir-trees gray. 
Sweeping, grating, sighing away ! 
As one that seeketh not to find 
Thou ravest through the pines, O Wind ; 
Across the pines I hear thee rave 
Sick as a madman for his grave ; 

And I have caught thee in the West, 
Coming from thy prayer unblest, 
Coming from the sun at rest, 

With the tedium in thy cry 
Of a breath that cannot die, 

With the rancour in thy glee 
Of a god who has lost his memory 
In search of the things that were wont to be.