  The wind is wild to-night, In the dark he turns and stirs, Or he falls into dream and quiet, In the gloomy heart of the firs. He springs upon the trees, And he shakes the sleeping nest; And every little water-pool Has a troubled breast. Where the rivers of memory spring; Their waters are bitter, are bitter, And have dampened his wing. The very flowers are musing On something they longed to be, In a land of peace and promise, In a province of the sea. The birds cry out and are silent, They are dreaming once again Of the tawny-throated hollow, And the fern in the glen. And the wind raves out like a spirit, With his hands hid in his hair, And my heart is leaping, and leaping, To follow him—where?
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