Wind of the North,
Wind of the Norland snows,
Wind of the winnowed skies, and sharp, clear stars,—
Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,
And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,
And blur the casement squares with glittering ice,
But go not near my love.
Wind of the West,
Wind of the few, far clouds,
Wind of...
When i am standing on a mountain crest,
Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray,
My love of you leaps foaming in my breast,
Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray;
My heart bounds with the horses of the sea,
And plunges in the wild ride of the night,
Flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large glee
That rides out Fate and welcomes...
Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid,—
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world’s gay, busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where’er she goes;
Pure-bosomed as that watery glass,...
When I am standing on a mountain crest,
Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray,
My love of you leaps foaming in my breast,
Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray;
My heart bounds with the horses of the sea,
And plunges in the wild ride of the night,
Flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large glee
That rides out Fate and welcomes...
TELL me, ye wingèd winds,
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity as it answered,—“No...
Up the dale and down the bourne,
O’er the meadow swift we fly;
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.
By the grassy-fringèd river,
Through the murmuring reeds we sweep;
Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,
To their very hearts we creep.
Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we...
From “Wicklow”
YES, this is Wicklow; round our feet
And o’er our heads its woodlands smile;
Behold it, love—the garden sweet
And playground of our stormy isle.* * * * *
Is it not fair—the leafy land?
Not boasting Nature’s sterner pride,
Voluptuous beauty, scenes that stand
By minds immortal...
Some, too fragile for winter winds
The thoughtful grave encloses —
Tenderly tucking them in from frost
Before their feet are cold.
Never the treasures in her nest
The cautious grave exposes,
Building where schoolboy dare not look,
And sportsman is not bold.
This covert...
South Winds jostle them —
Bumblebees come —
Hover — hesitate —
Drink, and are gone —
Butterflies pause
On their passage Cashmere —
I — softly plucking,
Present them here!
