Ho! wind of the wild morasses!
Oh! breath of the high hill-passes!
Your call is sweet
  in the city street,
As the voice of a friend to me.

Come, speak to a fellow-rover!
What news from the fields of clover?
What tidings now
  from the mountain's brow,
And the waves of the open sea.

Your tale of the woods deliver,
Of oars on a golden river;
Do the ripples lisp
  and the broad blades crisp
As they did in a younger day?

Is ever a bark with motion
Like ours on the breat of ocean,
With a drumming sail
  and a low lee-rail
And a bow in a burst of spray?

Though ne'er in the days that follow,
We tent in the wooded hollow,
Nor grip the wheel
  as the slanted keel
Is bared by the dropping swell.

We'll dream that the foam is whiter,
The air of the hills is brighter,
The woods are green
  with a deeper sheen
Because they were loved so well.