Soft wind, low piping through the shrouds all day,
Dost thou not whisper of the woods to me?
Oh for thy wings, that I might speed away
Over this trackless waste of weary sea!
Sing on, sweet wind, a song of summer leaves,
Lisping, through trembling shadows in the lane,
Of roses nodding under moss-grown eaves,
Of raindrops tinkling on the cottage pane.
Under thy pinions bent the springing wheat,
The large field-daisies bowed their starry crowns,
The wild thyme sighed to thee, and faintly sweet
The scent of gorse was blown across the downs.
Soft wind, low piping through the shrouds to me,
What would I give to roam where thou hast been!
A thousand furlongs of this restless sea
For one lone mile of moor or woodland green!
