Last night the air was cold and still, No breeze was moving in Glendhu; The golden beech leaves scarcely stirred Above my head as I went through. From ev'ry cottage rose the smoke, An' not a breath its column broke. Brown in the glen the bracken grew, No broken leaf or stem you'd find. But after dawn the gale awoke, The world seem'd rocking in the wind. Across the Wicklow hills he came, The herdsmen felt his great wings beat; The waves of Lough Nahanagan Were ruffled by his flying feet; The Vale of Clara felt him pass Swift-foot across the meadow-grass; They heard him where the waters meet, He made the pines and larches sway; He cross'd the stream at Glenmacnass, And blew the falls to silver spray. They heard his pipes in Glenmalure, He sang a song of western seas; The withered leaves in Glendalough Rose up and rustled round his knees; He shook the beeches of Glendhu To golden rain as he passed through. He bent Glencullen's tallest trees, His breath was rough on bird and beast, Across the mountain tops he flew To take his pleasure in the east. Oh, wild wind from the distant west, Be still again, and give us rest.
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- by Winifred Mary Letts (1882 - 1972) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Charles Villiers Stanford, Sir (1852 - 1924), "The West Wind", op. 139 no. 7, published 1913, from A Fire of Turf, no. 7 [sung text checked 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Ted Perry
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 32
Word count: 207