With a lock of his golden hair
We’ll thatch our nest when it grows bare.
Many a one for him makes moan,
But none sall ken where he is gone;
O’er his white bones when they grow bare
The wind shall blow forever mair.
Observe, the wind simply blows. That is enough; but a modern poet would have sought to intensify by making the wind moan, or shriek, or sob, or something of the kind.
Mr. Lowell here quoted a ballad which tells a story of a child-murder. It begins:
Fair Anne sate in her bower
Down by the greenwood side,