Or stranger and wilder fancy--it seems
As I hear their wind-torn cry,
No birds fly there through the sun's last gleams,
But the wraiths of hopes--the ghosts of dreams
That the old sea-gods saw die.
When the mist drives past and the wind blows high,
And the harbour lights are dim--
See where they circle, and dip and fly,
The grey free-lances of wind and sky,
To the far horizon's rim.
THE SHEPHERD WIND
When hills and plains are powdered white,
And bitter cold the north wind blows,
Upon my window in the night
A fairy-garden grows.
Here poppies that no hand hath sown
Bloom white as foam upon the sea,
And elfin bells to earth unknown
Hold frost-bound melody.
And here are blossoms like to stars
Tangled in nets of silver lace--
My very breath their beauty mars,
Or stirs them from their place.
Perchance the echoes of old songs
Found here a resting place at last
With drifting perfume that belongs
To roses of the past.
Or all the moonbeams that were lost
On summer nights the world forgets
May here be prisoned by the frost
With souls of violets.
The wind doth shepherd many things--
And when the nights are long and cold,
Who knows how strange a flock he brings
All safely to the fold.
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