Poor little songs, children of sorrow, go. A wind may take you up, and blow you far. My heart will go with you, too, wherever you go. As the little leaves in the wood, they pass: The wind has lifted them, and the wind is gone. Have I too not heard the wind come, and pass? The secret dews fall under the Evening-Star, And there is peace I know in the west: yet, if there be no dawn, The secret dews fall under the Evening-Star. |