To The Evening Gale

I love thee, wanton Wind ! I love thy wing
To gently winnow my recumbent form,
As on the moss-grown steep my length I fling,
And listen to the billows mutt'ring storm.
Then do I think me of those lovesome hours
When Hope had first unfurl'd her golden sail,
When 'midst the shade of world-secluded bow'rs,
I felt thy nectar'd breath,--thou balmy Gale.
Yes! it was sweet, 'twas "passing" sweet, to hear
The wand'ring cadence of thy trembling tongue,
For ah ! a voice, to sad remembrance dear,
Oft its low sweetness on thy pinion hung.
Pour then, oh breeze ! thy soft and charmful trill,
And I will think I catch its sweetness still.

Laura Sophia Temple (1805)


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