SONG.
The wind is wild to-night,In the dark he turns and stirs,Or he falls into dream and quiet,In the gloomy heart of the firs.He springs upon the trees,And he shakes the sleeping nest;And every little water-poolHas a troubled breast.He has come from a weary land,Where the rivers of memory spring;Their waters are bitter, are bitter,And have dampened his wing.The very flowers are musingOn something they longed to be,In a land of peace and promise,In a province of the sea.The birds cry out and are silent,They are dreaming once againOf the tawny-throated hollow,And the fern in the glen.And the wind raves out like a spirit,With his hands hid in his hair,And my heart is leaping, and leaping,To follow him—where?
The wind is wild to-night,In the dark he turns and stirs,Or he falls into dream and quiet,In the gloomy heart of the firs.He springs upon the trees,And he shakes the sleeping nest;And every little water-poolHas a troubled breast.He has come from a weary land,Where the rivers of memory spring;Their waters are bitter, are bitter,And have dampened his wing.The very flowers are musingOn something they longed to be,In a land of peace and promise,In a province of the sea.The birds cry out and are silent,They are dreaming once againOf the tawny-throated hollow,And the fern in the glen.And the wind raves out like a spirit,With his hands hid in his hair,And my heart is leaping, and leaping,To follow him—where?
The wind is wild to-night,In the dark he turns and stirs,Or he falls into dream and quiet,In the gloomy heart of the firs.
The wind is wild to-night,
In the dark he turns and stirs,
Or he falls into dream and quiet,
In the gloomy heart of the firs.
He springs upon the trees,And he shakes the sleeping nest;And every little water-poolHas a troubled breast.
He springs upon the trees,
And he shakes the sleeping nest;
And every little water-pool
Has a troubled breast.
He has come from a weary land,Where the rivers of memory spring;Their waters are bitter, are bitter,And have dampened his wing.
He has come from a weary land,
Where the rivers of memory spring;
Their waters are bitter, are bitter,
And have dampened his wing.
The very flowers are musingOn something they longed to be,In a land of peace and promise,In a province of the sea.
The very flowers are musing
On something they longed to be,
In a land of peace and promise,
In a province of the sea.
The birds cry out and are silent,They are dreaming once againOf the tawny-throated hollow,And the fern in the glen.
The birds cry out and are silent,
They are dreaming once again
Of the tawny-throated hollow,
And the fern in the glen.
And the wind raves out like a spirit,With his hands hid in his hair,And my heart is leaping, and leaping,To follow him—where?
And the wind raves out like a spirit,
With his hands hid in his hair,
And my heart is leaping, and leaping,
To follow him—where?