The wind is howling in angry pain,
Ah me, and I cannot rest;
On such a night home is best,
Why does she stand in the same old place
With the smile of smiles on her cold white face
And call me thro' the rain?
Ah—the Wind has died from the Fear of her smile—
And I creep quite still—
On over the hill,
To where she stands 'mid the scented yew