Poems (Hinchman)/The grey sky holds me with a dream-desire
XVIII
The grey sky holds me with a dream-desireThe sea-mists draw me; and against them set,The sun's bow sings to my wild heart A thought.
The sweet air holdeth in her gentle handsMy wearied brow, and whispers in my ear;Above me in the gull's cry comes once more The thought.
The pine-trees, moaning, join their mournful voiceWith the wind's song, that sings again to me;And ever ocean's burden thundereth That thought.
The harp-strings hold it for a harper's hands;My soul doth hear and hearing longs to sing,But from the strings my fingers fall, nor draw My thought.