W. H. Auden
The Wind
Were I the wind, I'd blow no more on such a wicked, miserable world. I’d crawl somewhere to a cave, and slink there

Evil is unspectacular and always human
And shares our bread and eats at our own table
And we are introduced to Goodness every day
Even in drawing-rooms among a crowd of faults;
He has a name like Billy and is almost perfect
But wears a stammer like decoration:
And every time they meet the same thing has to happen;
It is the Evil that is helpless like a lover
And has to pick a quarrel and succeeds
And both are openly destroyed before our eyes

And yet, ‘tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind. Who ever conquered it? In every fight it has the last and bitterest blow

How wild the winds blow!

A vile wind that has no doubt blown ere this through prison corridors, and wards of hospitals, and ventilated them, and comes blowing hither as innocent as fleeces

Out upon it! – it's tainted