O wild November wind, blow back to me
The withered leaves, that drift adown the past;
Waft me some murmur of the summer sea,
On which youth's fairy fleet of dreams was cast;
Return to me the beautiful No More--
O wild November wind, restore, restore!
November wind, in what dim, loathsome cave,
Languish the tender-plumed gales of spring?
No more their dances dimple o'er the wave,
Nor freighted pinions song and perfume bring:
Those gales are dead--that dimpling sea is dark;
And cloudy ghosts clutch at each mist-like bark.
O wild, wild wind, where are the summer airs
That kissed the roses of the long-ago?
Taking them captive--swooned in blissful snares--
To let them perish. Now no roses blow
In the waste gardens thou art laying bare:
Where are my heart's bright roses, where, oh where?
Thou hast no answer, thou unpitying gale?
No gentle whisper from the past to me!
No snatches of sweet song--no tender tale--
No happy ripple of that summer sea;
Are all my dreams wrecked on the nevermore?
O wild November wind, restore, restore!