Noisy climate and weedy my days are Better than is to be a prodigal fern I flock to horrid thorp of winter. Futile ivy grow on red rose I see, I feel, I wonder. I come, I roam and I go Amid leaves I whistle and peek, Through happy thorps I intently blow To the snowy buds I do speak. My words to heavens will go to And will echo through roads of hell Many it will influence, many it will woo I carry sweet verses through the vale. The white buds I fall in love with, They fill me with filthy pain, As ever I blow over the heath, Never cry for the tender rain. I reach to pleasant pace, With head full of golden hair With transitory pride and grace Oh! None I see, none I fear. I come to the grassy field Give the grass a soft blow I come not to yield I take tears of the widow. I travel over the man less land, I seek to be on the stage, I take futile, rough handful sand Don’t seek for handsome wage. I come to gray hair, Seek aid from my heredity, Just wait for the last air, Amid love and enmity. Through the days I seek a lot, To come on the stage, I forgot. I repent on my way to hell, Take the filthy futile smell. Will come, will roam, and will go Amid leaves I will whistle and peek, Through happy thorps I will intently blow To the snowy buds I will speak.
