THE SORROW OF THE WINDS
Reading edition
O winds that pass uncomforted Through all the peacefulness of spring, And tell the trees your sorrowing, That they must mourn till ye are fled! Think ye the Tyrian distance holds The crystal of unquestioned sleep? That those forgetful purples keep No veiled, contentious greens and golds? Half with communicated grief, Half that they are not free to pass With you across the flickering grass, Mourns each inclined bough and leaf. And I, with soul disquieted, Shall find within the haunted spring No peace, till your strange sorrowing Is down the Tyrian distance fled.