Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/178



high, sing low, thou moody wind, It skills not—for thy glee Is ever of a fellow-kind With mine own fantasy. Go, sadly moan or madly blow In fetterless free will, Wild spirit of the clouds ! but know I ride thy comrade still ; Loving thy humours, I can be Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee.

Go, and with light and noiseless wing, Fan yonder murmuring stream— Brood o’er it, as the sainted thing, The spirit of its dream ; Give to its voice a sweeter tone Of calm and heartfelt gladness ; Or, to those old trees, woe-begone, Add moan of deeper sadness,—