Last night the wind swept swiftly o'er the fields,
Where late the wheat swayed golden in the sun,
And where no more the singing reaper wields
His scythe, for now the harvest toil is done.

The wind stole quietly, but with chilling breath,
And voice as seeking, seeking without end,
And low, its murmur said, " I bring not Death
But only sleep, the lover and the friend."

The wind swept past and onward o'er the hills,
With restless pace, unwearying in its quest,
And in my heart I felt the fear that stills,
For swift I heard its beating in my breast.

The whispering of strange voices filled the night;
I dreamed the dead were drifting on the wind,
Returning to their land with hastening flight;
And still I hear the words the wind's voice dinned.