The Hill-Winds

The hill-winds coming, the hill-winds going, 
They have no care for my heavy fret; 
I lay my face in the long grass growing, 
And dream of Moirin, and half forget 
That never a wind in the world is blowing 
Her thoughts to my heart that loves her yet. 

The hill-winds going, the hill-winds coming, 
I take no heed of them all day long — 
Though I lie in their heart from dawn to gloaming, 
And hark the bees where the clovers throng: 
And, O wild bees, that you'd hush your humming: 
What comfort is there in comb or song? 

The hill-winds fly without care or cumber, 
And scent of bean-fields they bring to me, 
Where magic flowers without name or number 
Are sending dreams where sad sleepers be: 
But none so deep as the honeyed slumber 
Of Moirin drowned in the Ictian Sea.