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7
THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT.
O wind, that moanest at the midnight hourAround my chamber, what is thy desire?
Now whispering low and ready to expire,
Now waxing louder with a fitful power.
What wouldest thou? Whence thy mysterious dower
To thrill the darkness like a trembling lyre;
Or wake sweet music, now far off, now nigher,
As of some heavenly bird in secret bower?
O Wind, O Bird, I know Thee whence Thou camest,
And what soft message lurks beneath Thy wing:
When earth is hushed in silence, then Thou claimest
With plaintive tones an audience for the King:
Speak, Lord, I hear—Oh, let Thy Holy Dove
Soothe my lone heart with whispers of Thy love.
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