Wind
Then let our little bell of time
Ring onward with a chatty chime—­
How we have fled o’er earth and sky,
And what you saw and what saw I.

Cloud
O, I from off my couch serene,
Woods, meadows, towns and seas have seen;
And in one wood, beside a cave,
A hermit kneeling by a grave:—­
The which I felt so touched to see
I wept a shower of sympathy. 
And in one mead I saw, methought,
A brave, dark-armored knight, who fought
A shining-dragon in a mist,
That, mixed with flames did roll and twist
Out of the beast’s red mouth—­a breath
Of choking, blinding, sulphurous death,
On which I shot my thickest rain
And made the conflict fair again. 
And from one town I heard the swell
Of a loud, melancholy bell,
That past me rose in flames of sound
And up to Saint Cecilia wound. 
And on one sea I saw a ship
Bend out its full-fed sails and slip
So light, so gladly o’er the tide
I could not help but look inside—­
Its passengers were groom and bride. 
I floated o’er them snowily,
They felt my beauty in the sky,
Their eyes, their souls, their joy were one,
I would not cross their happy sun. 
I love this life of calm and use—­
No bonds but windy ribbons loose,
No gifts to ask but all to give,
Secure Elysium fugitive.

Wind
Your life, though, drinks not half the wine
Of active gladness that doth mine;
I spread my wings and stretch my arms
Over a dozen hedged farms;
I breast steep hills, through pine-groves rush,
Rock birds’ nests, yet no fledgling crush,
Tossing the grain-fields everywhere,
The trees, the grass, the school-girl’s hair,
Whirling away her laugh the while—­
(We breezes love the children’s smile);
And then I lag and wander down
Among the roofs and dust of town,
Bearing cool draughts from lake and moor
To fan the faces of the poor,
While sick babes, stifled half to death,
Grow rosy at my country breath. 
I lent a shoulder to your ship;
I moaned with that sad hermit’s lip;
I helped disperse the dragon’s mist;
And some bell’s voice, ’twas yours I wist,
I handed up to winds on high
Who wing a loftier flight than I.
But, hark! a rider leaves the vale.

Cloud
Ah, yes, I catch the gleam of mail.

Randolph
O speak again ye voiced ghosts! 
I heard afar your cheerful boasts. 
And, if I doubt not, ye are they
That here have met me many a day.

Wind
We are they.

Cloud, (echoing)
                       We are they. 
But whither now doth Randolph stray,
And why the mail, and why the steed?

Randolph
This is my father’s mail indeed,
Bequeathed with message to his son: 
“Stand straight in it and yield to none.”

Wind
But whither off and why away?