The Home-Wind

Ho! wind of the wild morasses!

Oh! breath of the high hill-passes!

Your call is sweet

in the city street,

As the voice of a friend to me.

Come, speak to a fellow-rover!

What news from the fields of clover?

What tidings now

from the mountain's brow,

And the waves of the open sea.

Your tale of the woods deliver,

Of oars on a golden river;

Do the ripples lisp

and the broad blades crisp

As they did in a younger day?

Is ever a bark with motion

Like ours on the breat of ocean,

With a drumming sail

and a low lee-rail

And a bow in a burst of spray?

Though ne'er in the days that follow,

We tent in the wooded hollow,

Nor grip the wheel

as the slanted keel

Is bared by the dropping swell.

We'll dream that the foam is whiter,

The air of the hills is brighter,

The woods are green

with a deeper sheen

Because they were loved so well.