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A CAVEAT TO THE WIND, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind
Last Line: Meet co-mate for a shrew like thee!
Alternate Author Name(s): Brown, Isaac
Subject(s): Wind

Sing high, sing low, thou moody wind.
It skills not ''" for thy glee
Is ever of a fellow-kind
With mine own fantasy.
Go, sadly moan or madly blow
In fetterless free will,

Wild spirit of the clouds ! but know
I ride thy comrade still ;
Loving thy humours, I can be
Sad, wayward, wild, or mad, like thee.
Go, and with light and noiseless wing,
Fan yonder murmuring stream ''"

Brood o'er it, as the sainted thing,
The spirit of its dream ;
Give to its voice a sweeter tone
Of calm and heartfelt gladness ;
Or, to those old trees, woe-begone,
Add moan of deeper sadness, ''"

It likes me still ; for I can be
All sympathy of heart, like thee.
Rush forth, in maddest wrath, to rouse
The billows of the deep ;
And in the blustering storm, carouse
With fiends that never weep.

Go, tear each fluttering rag away,
Outshriek the mariner,
And hoarsely knell the mermaid's lay
Of death and shipwreck drear ; ''"
What reck I, since I still dare be
Harsh, fierce, and pitiless, like thee?

I love thy storm-shout on the land,
Thy storm-shout on the sea ;
Though shapes of death rise on each hand.
Dismay troops not with me.
With iron-cheek, that never showed
The channel of a tear,

With haughty heart, that never bowed
Beneath a dastard fear,
I rush with thee o'er land and sea,
Rejoicing in thy thundering glee.
Lovest thou those cloisters, old and dim,
Where ghosts at midnight stray,

To pour abroad unearthly hymn,
And fright the stars away?
Add to their sighs thy hollow tone
Of saddest melancholy ''"
For I, too, love such places lone,
And court such guests unjolly:

Such haunts, such mates, in sooth, to me
Be welcome as they are to thee.
Blow as thou wilt, blow any where,
Wild spirit of the sky,
It matters not ''" earth, ocean, air,
Still echoes to my cry,

"I follow thee;" for, where thou art,
My spirit, too, must be,
While each chord of this wayward heart,
Thrills to thy minstrelsy;
And he that feels so sure must be
Meet co-mate for a shrew like thee!

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