Wind by Boris Paternak
 

I have died, but you are still among the living.
And the wind, keening and complaining,
Makes the country house and the forest rock -
Not each pine by itself
But all the trees as one,
Together with the illimitable distance;
It makes them rock as the hulls of sailboats
Rock on the mirrorous waters of a boat-basin.
And this the wind does not out of bravado
Or in a senseless rage,
But so that in its desolation
It may find words to fashion a lullaby for you.