8
V.
ADDRESS TO A CHILD,
During a boisterous Winter Evening.
By a female Friend of the Author.
What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height
Which the goat cannot climb takes his sounding flight.
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes
There's never a Scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And rings a sharp larum;—but if you should look
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
