Return to me the beautiful No More—
O wild November wind, restore, restore!
November wind, in what dim, loathsome cave,
Languish the tender-plumed gales of spring?
No more their dances dimple o'er the wave,
Nor freighted pinions song and perfume bring:
Those gales are dead—that dimpling sea is dark;
And cloudy ghosts clutch at each mist-like bark.
O wild, wild wind, where are the summer airs
That kissed the roses of the long-ago?
Taking them captive—swooned in blissful snares—
To let them perish. Now no roses blow
In the waste gardens thou art laying bare:
Where are my heart's bright roses, where, oh where?
Thou hast no answer, thou unpitying gale?
No gentle whisper from the past to me!
No snatches of sweet song—no tender tale—
No happy ripple of that summer sea;
Are all my dreams wrecked on the nevermore?
O wild November wind, restore, restore!
BY THE SEA.
Blue is the mist on the mountains,
White is the fog on the sea;
Ruby and gold is the sunset,—
And Bertha is waiting for me.
Down on the loathsome sand-beach,
Her eyes as blue as the mist;
Her brows as white as the sea-fog,—
Bertha, whose lips I have kissed.
