Ye storm-winds of autumn! Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-lighted lake; Who cross to the hillside Thin-sprinkled with farms, Where the high woods strip sadly Their yellowing arms,-- Ye are bound for the mountains! Ah! with you let me go Where your cold, distant barrier, The vast range of snow, Through the loose clouds lifts dimly Its white peaks in air. How deep is their stillness! Ah! would I were there! But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn? Or was it from some sun-flecked mountain brook That the sweet voice its upland clearness took? Ah! it comes nearer-- Sweet notes, this way! Hark! fast by the window The rushing winds go, To the ice-cumbered gorges, The vast seas of snow! There the torrents drive upward Their rock-strangled hum; There the avalanche thunders The hoarse torrent dumb. --I come, O ye mountains! Ye torrents, I come! But who is this, by the half-opened door, Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor? The sweet blue eyes--the soft, ash-colored hair-- The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear-- The lovely lips, with their arched smile that tells The unconquered joy in which her spirit dwells-- Ah! they bend nearer-- Sweet lips, this way! Hark! the wind rushes past us! Ah! with that let me go To the clear, waning hill-side, Unspotted by snow, There to watch, o’er the sunk vale, The frore mountain wall, Where the niched snow-bed sprays down Its powdery fall. There its dusky blue clusters The aconite spreads; There the pines slope, the cloud-strips Hung soft in their heads. No life but, at moments, The mountain bee’s hum. --I come, O ye mountains! Ye pine-woods, I come! Forgive me! forgive me! Ah, Marguerite, fain Would these arms reach to clasp thee! But see! ’tis in vain. In the void air, towards thee, My stretched arms are cast; But a sea rolls between us,-- Our different past! To the lips, ah! of others Those lips have been prest, And others, ere I was, Were strained to that breast. Far, far from each other Our spirits have grown. And what heart knows another? Ah! who knows his own?