Classic Poem

Ye storm-winds of Autumn
Who rush by, who shake
The window, and ruffle
The gleam-lighted lake;
Who cross to the hill-side
Thin-sprinkled with farms,
Where the high woods strip sadly
Their yellowing arms ÔÇô
Ye are bound for the mountains ÔÇô
Ah, with you let me go
Where the cold distant barrier,
The vast range of snow,
Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peaks in air ÔÇô
How deep is their stillness!
Ah! would I were there!

But on the stairs what voice is this I hear,
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear?
Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn?
Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain-brook
That the sweet voice its upland clearness took?
Ah! it comes nearer ÔÇô
Sweet notes, this way!

Hark! fast by the window
The rushing winds go,
To the ice-cumbered gorges,
The vast seas of snow!
There the torrents drive upward
Their rock-strangled hum;
There the avalanche thunders
The hoarse torrent dumb.
ÔÇô I come, O ye mountains!
Ye torrents, I come!

But who is this, by the half-opened door,
Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor?
The sweet blue eyes ÔÇô the soft, ash-coloured hair ÔÇô
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear ÔÇô
The lovely lips, with their arch smile that tells
The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells ÔÇô
Ah! they bend nearer ÔÇô
Sweet lips, this way!

Hark! the wind rushes past us!
Ah! with that let me go
To the clear waning hill-side,
Unspotted by snow,
There to watch, o'er the sunk vale,
The frore mountain-wall,
Where the niched snow-bed sprays down
Its powdery fall.
There its dusky blue clusters
The aconite spreads;
There the pines slope, the cloud-strips
Hung soft in their heads.
No life, but, at moments,
The mountain-bees' hum.
ÔÇô I come, O ye mountains!
Ye pine-woods, I come!

Forgive me! forgive me!
Ah, Marguerite, fain
Would these arms reach to clasp thee!
But see! 'tis in vain.

In the void air, towards thee,
My strained arms are cast;
But a sea rolls between us ÔÇô
Our different past!

To the lips, ah! of others
Those lips have been pressed,
And others, ere I was,
Were clasped to that breast;

Far, far from each other
Our spirits have grown;
And what heart knows another?
Ah! who knows his own?

Blow, ye winds! lift me with you!
I come to the wild.
Fold closely, O Nature!
Thine arms round thy child.

To thee only God granted
A heart ever new ÔÇô
To all always open,
To all always true.

Ah, calm me! restore me!
And dry up my tears
On thy high mountain-platforms,
Where morn first appears;

Where the white mists, for ever,
Are spread and upfurled ÔÇô
In the stir of the forces
Whence issued the world.