Page:Amulet 1829.pdf/2

Rh

wind is sweeping o'er the hill; It hath a mournful sound, As if it felt the difference Its weary wing hath found. A little while that wandering wind Swept over leaf and flower: For there was green for every tree, And bloom for every hour.

It wandered through the pleasant wood, And caught the dove's lone song; And by the garden beds, and bore The rose's breath along. But hoarse and sullenly it sweeps; No rose is opening now— No music, for the wood-dove's nest Is vacant on the bough.