The wind is sweeping o'er the hill;
    It hath a mournful sound,
As if it felt the difference
    Its weary wing hath found.
A little while that wandering wind
    Swept over leaf and flower:
For there was green for every tree,
    And bloom for every hour.

It wandered through the pleasant wood,
    And caught the dove's lone song;
And by the garden beds, and bore
    The rose's breath along.
But hoarse and sullenly it sweeps;
    No rose is opening now—
No music, for the wood-dove's nest
    Is vacant on the bough.

Oh, human heart and wandering wind,
    Go look upon the past;
The likeness is the same with each,
    Their summer did not last.
Each mourns above the things it loved—
    One o'er a flower and leaf;
The other over hopes and joys,
    Whose beauty was as brief.