The Sorrow of the Winds

Clark Ashton Smith

O winds that pass uncomforted
Through all the peaceful meads of spring,
And tell the trees your sorrowing,
That they must mourn till ye are fled !

Think ye the Tyrian distance holds
The crystal of unbroken sleep ?
That those forgetful purples keep
No veiled, contentious greens and golds ?

Half with communicated grief,
Half that they are not free to pass
With you across the flickering grass,
Mourns each inclin├Ęd bough and leaf.

And I, with soul disquieted,
Shall find within the haunted spring
No peace, till your strange sorrowing
Is down the Tyrian distance fled.

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