William Henry Whitworth

WHO wishes the wild wind to blow, nor grieves

To see spring buds of promise falling down,

As brief as they are fair, before the brown

And faded wreaths the last year’s tempest leaves?

There had the small birds on long summer eves

Sung, careless how sere Autumn, with his crown

Of amber beads and saffron-colored gown,

The widowed woods of all their bloom bereaves.

Yet are the happiest of the happy they

(Did they but know their happiness) who go

Before our hopes, those flowers of life, decay.

They rest as soft and silent as the snow

By the sea-shore on some calm winter’s day:

Alas! who would not wish the wind to blow!