The wind's in the east. . . . I am always conscious of an
uncomfortable sensation now and then read more

The wind's in the east. . . . I am always conscious of an
uncomfortable sensation now and then when the wind is blowing in
the east.

Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
read more

Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks,
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men as thou dost pass.

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
read more

I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in read more

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.

Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God, thou art very great;
thou art clothed with honour read more

Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord my God, thou art very great;
thou art clothed with honour and majesty.
Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment: who stretches
out the heavens like a curtain:
Who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh
the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind:
Who maketh his angels spirits; his ministers a flaming fire:
Who laid the foundations of the earth, that it should not be
removed for ever.

Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find
The perfumes thou dost bring?

Where hast thou wandered. gentle gale, to find
The perfumes thou dost bring?

Perhaps the wind
Wails so in winter for the summer's dead,
And all sad sounds are nature's read more

Perhaps the wind
Wails so in winter for the summer's dead,
And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries
For what has been and is not.

The hushed winds wail with feeble moan
Like infant charity.

The hushed winds wail with feeble moan
Like infant charity.

The wind is awake, pretty leave, pretty leaves,
Heed not what he says, he deceives, he deceives;
read more

The wind is awake, pretty leave, pretty leaves,
Heed not what he says, he deceives, he deceives;
Over and over
To the lowly clover
He has lisped the same love (and forgotten it, too).
He will be lisping and pledging to you.