Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/28

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22
Poems.
 A melancholy sound is in the air,A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wailAround my dwelling. 'Tis the wind of night;A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud,In the black shadow and the chilly mist,Along the streaming mountain side, and throughThe dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields,Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makesThe journey of life alone, and nowhere meetsA welcome or a friend, and still goes onIn darkness. Yet awhile, a little while,And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play,And dally with the flowers, and gaily liftThe slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain,And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky,White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm.
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