Perhaps the wind
Wails so in winter for the summers dead,
And all sad sounds are nature’s funeral cries
For what has been and is not.

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More from George Eliot

Oh may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence.

Oh may I join the Choir invisible.

His smile is sweetened by his gravity.

Book i.

Certain winds will make men’s temper bad.

Sad as a wasted passion.

Book i.

Knightly love is blent with reverence
As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue.

Book i.