The Wind

I stir the pulses of the mind,
And, with my passive cheek inclined,
I lay my ear along the wind.

It fans my face, it fans the tree,
It goes away and comes to me,
I feel it, but I cannot see.

Upon my chilly brow it plays,
It whispers of forgotten days,
It says whatever fancy says.

Away, away — by wood and plain,
About the park, and through the lane
It goes and comes to me again.

Away, — again away, it roams,
By fields of flocks and human homes,
And laden with their voices comes:

It comes and whispers in my ear,
So close I cannot choose but hear;
It speaks, and yet I do not fear;

Then, sweeping where the shadows lie,
Its murmur softens to a sigh
That pains me as it passes by,

And, in its sorrow, and reproof,
Goes wailing round the wall and roof,
So sad the swallow soars aloof.

Away, — the old cathedral bell
Is swinging over hill and dell;
Devoted men are praying well.

Away, — with every breath there come
The tones of toil's eternal hum, —
Man, legion-voiced, yet ever dumb

Away, away, — by lake and lea, —
It cometh ever back to me,
I feel it, but I cannot see