The homeless bird has a weary time
When the wind is high and moans through the grass:
The laughter has fainted out of my rime--
Oh! but the life that will moan and pass!

An oak-tree wrestling on the hill,
And the wind wailing in the grass--
And life will strive with many an ill
For many a weary day ere it pass--

Wailing, wailing a winter threne
In the clouds on high and low in the grass;
So for my soul will he raise the keen
When I from the winds and the winters pass.