94
A Caveat to the Wind.
Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind,
It skills not—for thy glee
Is ever of a fellow-kind
With mine own fantasy.
Go, sadly moan or madly blow
In fetterless free will,
Wild spirit of the clouds ! but know
I ride thy comrade still ;
Loving thy humours, I can be
Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee.
Go, and with light and noiseless wing,
Fan yonder murmuring stream—
Brood o’er it, as the sainted thing,
The spirit of its dream ;
Give to its voice a sweeter tone
Of calm and heartfelt gladness ;
Or, to those old trees, woe-begone,
Add moan of deeper sadness,—
