Over hill and over valley—
Over meadows rich and green,
Playing with the summer grasses—
Fairer sights were never seen.
Not a mortal ever saw me,
Though I see THEM ev’ry day;
Passing like a viewless spirit
On my happy singing way.
Often do I rise up skyward,
Chasing fast the cloudlets there,
And I drive them headlong onward
Till they all in fragments tear.
Often on the field of battle,
’Mid the storm that works them woe,
Do I cheer ’mid cannon’s rattle,
Kissing both the friend and foe.
And the wounded, as he listens
To me as I whistle on,
Thinks of home and friends and parents
And of days that now have gone.
I often whistle through the woods
And toss the hunter’s hair.
He sits him down upon a log,
While I caress him there.
His brow with sweat is covered o’er—
He feels my cooling sway,
I toss about his silver locks;
That deck his head of gray.
But on I go until I find
The farmer in his field;
I whistle o’er his garnered store
The willing land doth yield.
He hails me as his merry friend,
And thus I am to him;
I never pass without I cheer
His features calm and grim.
I cheer the poet as he sings
Beside some flowing stream,
And looks upon the dim, dim past,
A vision or a dream.