O, I love the wind, the sighing wind,
As it murmurs softly by,
With a low, sad note like a broken lute,
Or some lonely heart's vain sigh;
As it floats along with its shivering song,
O it ruffles the fount of tears,
And we're held awhile by its witching wile
At the grave of by-gone years.
O I love the wind, the wailing wind;
It speaks to the child of care
With a wordless speech that the heart can reach,
And stills the tumult there.
Then, then, I dream of some strange, wild scene,
And a light my soul doth cheer;
And a voice I find, in the careless wind,
That others never hear.
O I love the wind, the reckless wind,
When longings fill my breast
For the end of strife, and a noble life
In the far-off land of rest.
For well we know while here below
We sigh in vain for peace,
While the air that now strays o'er the brow,
Is fraught with human grief.
Yes, I love the wind, the wild, wild wind;
It suits my wayward mood,
As it rolls along with its spell-like song,
And dies in the dark-arched wood.
O, there is a charm in the wrathful storm,
Its echo my heart doth wake;
And I list entranced to the magic chants
The weird wind-voices make.
Hast thou ever stood in some dark, arched wood
And heard a far-off sigh,
Till louder it broke, and the forest shook
As it onward passed thee by;
Then softly and still, like the harp's last thrill
At the close of the minstrel's lay,
Or the murmur sweet, of the distant deep,
It died on the ear away?
