To The Summer Wind
By John Banister Tabb
Art thou the selfsame wind that blew
When I was but a boy?
Thy voice is like the voice I knew,
And yet the thrill of joy
Has softened to a sadder tone --
Perchance the echo of mine own.
Beside a sea of memories
In solitude I dwell:
Upon the shore forsaken lies
Alas! no murmuring shell!
Are all the voices lost to me
Still wandering the world with thee?
Source Book
Poems
by John Banister Tabb
Copyright 1860
Published by Ticknor And Fields, Boston
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To The Summer Wind
by John Banister Tabb
