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THE MEET OF THE WINDS.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

Intoned no lauding sonnet from the West,

But wondrous life beamed brightly everywhere;

And sang the poet from his deeper breast:

In the evening far there is a maid,

Yet here she ever seems;

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'T is but her I see in the forest glade,

In my wandering, waking dreams.

All the beauty of forest or sky or lake

Can but say to my soul, "She lives!"

Be she lovely or no? I cannot tell, -

To the earth all its charm she gives;

Aught of good there may be in my poor dim soul

But reflects the glad light in her eye.

Sing ye joy? Far from her is but dreary dole,

And the one sad boon to die.

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