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309
CHANGE.
BY L. E. L.
The wind is sweeping o'er the hill;
It hath a mournful sound,
As if it felt the difference
Its weary wing hath found.
A little while that wandering wind
Swept over leaf and flower:
For there was green for every tree,
And bloom for every hour.
It wandered through the pleasant wood,
And caught the dove's lone song;
And by the garden beds, and bore
The rose's breath along.
But hoarse and sullenly it sweeps;
No rose is opening now—
No music, for the wood-dove's nest
Is vacant on the bough.
