Page:Poems (IA poemstennalfr00tennrich).pdf/170



wind, that beats the mountain, blows ⁠More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those ⁠That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made, ⁠Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade ⁠Even with a verse your holy woe.