Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/216

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storm-winds of autumn!

Who rush by, who shake

The window, and ruffle

The gleam-lighted lake;

Who cross to the hillside

Thin-sprinkled with farms,

Where the high woods strip sadly

Their yellowing arms,—

Ye are bound for the mountains!

Ah! with you let me go

Where your cold, distant barrier,

The vast range of snow,

Through the loose clouds lifts dimly

Its white peaks in air.

How deep is their stillness!

Ah! would I were there!

But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,

Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?

Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn

Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?

Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook

That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?

Ah! it comes nearer—

Sweet notes, this way!

Hark! fast by the window

The rushing winds go,

To the ice-cumbered gorges,

The vast seas of snow!

There the torrents drive upward

Their rock-strangled hum;