The wind that blows from the west
Taps at my window, sighing;
But I pull the curtains close,
I'll hear no more its crying.
Oh, the north wind, it is good!
I run to meet it singing.
And the south hath summer's breath,
Like to a censor swinging.
And the east is as a voice
That calls me from my sleeping.
The wind that comes from the west,
It fills my heart with weeping.
There is salt upon its mouth,
It is full of ghostly laughter,
And dim shades and shadows come
To call by roof and rafter.
From the far-off hills it blows,
It is full of phantom sighing;
Where lost dear voices speak,
To hurt me with their crying.
Then blow, sweet breath of the south,
Blow for my good to-morrow,
The wind that comes from the west,
Brings to my heart but sorrow.
