Where my love is can you tell?
Thinks he of me ill or well?”
“I know not,” answered the cloud, “ask the wind.”
Then she saw a tiny breeze playing among the field flowers, and called out:
“Gentle Breezelet, soul of air,
Look not lightly on my pain;
Kindly lift me from despair,
Help me freedom to regain.
Where my love is can you tell?
Thinks he of me ill or well?”