Christopher Pearse Cranch

“ Mysteries like thyself, strange Wind, thou bringest;
Unto the soul, as to a harp, thou singest
Hymns of unearthly harmony.
Type of the Spirit to whose deeps
Thou with thy deep dost call!
Of that great mystery that never sleeps,
Within the breast of all,
O Wind, whether thou blowest sad and wild,
Or gently breathest with glad tones and mild,
When in the moonlit leaves the sleeping bird
By thy bland touch is stirred ”