"Mewn cof anwyl."
So sings the West wind through the darkling eve,
In spirit-wanderings up and down the wold,
Each mournful sorrow at its heart untold,
Sighing in secret--as the angels grieve,
"Bring back my love!" sobs the bereaved wind;
And sleeping flow'rets waken at the sound,
Shedding their dewy tears upon the ground:
"She seeks," they whisper, "who shall never find!"