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.

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.

A litle wind kindles; much puts out the fire.
[A little wind kindles; much puts out the fire.]

A litle wind kindles; much puts out the fire.
[A little wind kindles; much puts out the fire.]

When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds read more

When the stormy winds do blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The hushed winds wail with feeble moan
Like infant charity.

The hushed winds wail with feeble moan
Like infant charity.

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.

The winds that never moderation knew,
Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
Or out of read more

The winds that never moderation knew,
Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge
Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.

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.

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears read more

It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,
And April's in the West wind, and daffodils.