GOING AND COMING.
127
Even the wind, to the spirit's hearing,
Comes like the call of a beck'ning Fate!
You, O child, in your springtime gladness,
Only the wrath of the tempest see,—
Comes like the call of a beck'ning Fate!
You, O child, in your springtime gladness,
Only the wrath of the tempest see,—
I, with a longing, sick heart sadness,
What does the south wind say to me?
What does the south wind say to me?
That some place where its breath is falling
He is fighting,—perhaps is slain;
That some place where its voice is calling
He is moaning my name in vain;
Somewhere under its lonely sighing,
In broken slumber or deadly strife,
In camp or field is the true heart lying
That calls you "darling" and calls me "wife."
He is fighting,—perhaps is slain;
That some place where its voice is calling
He is moaning my name in vain;
Somewhere under its lonely sighing,
In broken slumber or deadly strife,
In camp or field is the true heart lying
That calls you "darling" and calls me "wife."
You and I, my little one, nesting
Safe by his hearthstone, far away,—
What shall we do for our soldier's resting,—
What can we do but wait and pray.
Through all the changes life may ring us,
Waiting and praying with trust and might,
But most of all when the south winds bring us
A message from him, as they do to-night.
Safe by his hearthstone, far away,—
What shall we do for our soldier's resting,—
What can we do but wait and pray.
Through all the changes life may ring us,
Waiting and praying with trust and might,
But most of all when the south winds bring us
A message from him, as they do to-night.
