—
BY C.P. CRANCH.
—
Wind of cloudy, bleak November,
Falling, rising through the night,
As I watch each dying ember
By my lamp’s low softened light,
Sadly, vaguely I remember
Hours of sorrow and delight.
Rushing through the midnight dreary,
Thou art like a spirit’s sigh,
Mourning o’er some land of Faery
He had known in infancy—
So I muse till I am weary—
Would the wind would pause and die!
Cease, O memory, to taunt me
With the far off scent of flowers—
Cease, O midnight wind, to haunt me
With the ghosts of buried hours—
Hope, draw near and disenchant me,
Brightest of Angelic Powers!
