by Arthur Guiterman (1871 - 1943)
The Home‑Wind
Language: English
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.
Authorship:
- by Arthur Guiterman (1871 - 1943), "The Home-Wind", appears in The Mirthful Lyre, first published 1918 [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 Ernest Whyte (1858 - 1922), "The Home-Wind", op. 45 no. 1. [text verified 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 30
Word count: 166