THE WIND 



Wandering winds moaned through the trees, 



Like serried sobs of restless seas; 



And tree-boughs swaying low and wide 



Groped in quest of days that died, 



Murmuring soft and whispering low, 



Mournful speech of midnight woe 



" Farewell, Summer, long farewell." 



Solemn shadows softly fall, 

 Lying like some funeral pall, 

 On dead leaves and dying grass, 

 Where the winds are saying mass; 

 Moving noiseless, cold and dim, 

 Shadow phantoms gaunt and grim 

 Bow sweet Summer, "Long farewell." 



From the drifted leaves emerge 



Cricket cries of autumn's dirge, 



And dismantled treetops quiver, 



Like long reeds in rushing river, 



While the winds 'mid shadows blow, 



Half-articulate with woe, 



And long-drawn sobs "Fare-well, fare- well. 1 



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