The winter wind is loud and wild, Come close to me, my darling child; Forsake thy books, and mate less play; And, while the night is gathering grey, We’ll talk its pensive hours away.
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong.
I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading: It vexes me to choose another guide: Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding; Where the wild wind blows on the mountain-side.
