Welaway.
By George H. Clark.
O softly blows the southern breeze Beneath my window-blind,And plumes its winnowing wings for one It never more may find.The birdling that you seek, O wind, In your Æolian play,Some wandering seraph, stooping, saw, And bore to Heaven away.
You took your flight, O southern breeze, When Summer's sheaves were bent,And there was sorrowing round my hearth, When your sweet joyance went:But little did I know how much Of happiness was left,Until of that young love of ours My sad home was bereft.
He went when Autumn's golden light The glowing world o'erspread;And left behind a night of gloom And rayless dark instead.Life was not life to me, unless His presence formed a part,For he was the irradiate light And day-spring of my heart.
At sound of my familiar step, How brightened all his looks;
