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 | Poems |  |
179
A WIND.
Sweet Autumn Wind, whose breath with whispering flowVisiteth softly my o'erwearied brow;
Not the fierce North, whose frosty trumpets blow
Defiance to the earth, o'ercomes me now.
Thou, like the mists which soften into peace
The fading forests, with thy kiss serene
Givest my long-shut tears a sweet release,
Yet with no voice to ask what tears may mean.
Gentlest of all dear Nature's ministrants,
Who, laden with mild odors from the sea,
Comest at evening to my shadowy haunts
Rustling as if a spirit stirred the tree,
And shed its dry leaves softly to the earth,
Take grateful thanks from me and sighs more sweet than mirth.
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