THE WANDERING WIND.
125
No, no! the strange sweet accents
That with it come and go,
They are not from the osiers,
Nor the fir-trees whispering low.
They are not of the waters,
Nor of the caverned hill:
'Tis the human love within us
That gives them power to thrill.
They touch the links of memory
Around our spirits twined,
And we start, and weep, and tremble,
To the Wind, the wandering Wind!
