 | Songs in the Whirlwind |  |
THE WANDERER.
(To T. F. R.).
There is never an English sunset
You see in your walks abroad,
And never a restful twilight
Can the mystery land afford;
There is never a deep cool valley
Where the mists drift to and fro,
Or a dew-wet sloping hillside
Where the breezes roam and blow.
You see in your walks abroad,
And never a restful twilight
Can the mystery land afford;
There is never a deep cool valley
Where the mists drift to and fro,
Or a dew-wet sloping hillside
Where the breezes roam and blow.
There is seldom a gray cloud sailing
O'er the sky's unbroken blue,
Or a whispering wet wind, laden
With the rain, and evening dew;
You are lost to the rolling moorland
With her voice of solitude,
Where the heather and the bracken
O'er the untrod paths are strewed.
O'er the sky's unbroken blue,
Or a whispering wet wind, laden
With the rain, and evening dew;
You are lost to the rolling moorland
With her voice of solitude,
Where the heather and the bracken
O'er the untrod paths are strewed.
There is never a skylark haunting
The granite skies at dawn,
While the last bright star is fading
In the breaking light of morn;
You may wander the great world's highways,
All its pain and pleasure prove,
But your soul knows no other dwelling
Than the hills of the lost land you love.
The granite skies at dawn,
While the last bright star is fading
In the breaking light of morn;
You may wander the great world's highways,
All its pain and pleasure prove,
But your soul knows no other dwelling
Than the hills of the lost land you love.
| Songs in the Whirlwind | |