---
title: Improvement Era
description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930.
authors:
  - Lancaster, Florence L.
collections:
  - periodicals
tags:
  - magazine
  - improvement-era
periodical: Improvement Era
volume: 12
number: 4
published: 1909-02
publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations
publisher_place: Salt Lake City
language: en
type: magazine
reference: 'Lancaster, Florence L., "Wind Voices," *Improvement Era* 12, no. 4 (February 1909): 285.'
source:
  url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1204unse
  transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers.
  identifier: improvementera1204unse
start_page: 285
end_page: 285
rights:
  status: public-domain
  basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1909-02)
  source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera1204unse
  publication_year: 1909
  note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1909, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright.
---

# Wind Voices

<!-- page:285 -->

WIND VOICES.
(For the Improvement Era.)
'We are the voices of the wandering wind" — Edwin Arnold.
Wind, in the bough, decked at Summer's hest,
What murmurest thou when roses blow? —
"I rock each young bird in its nest
Like child cradled on mother-breast,
To my lullaby rustling low."
Wind, at the city's corners gusty,
Why whistlest thou so vacant and bold? —
' '0, the rise of my joy was lusty!
In the drift of these by-ways dusty,
It fell, and the heart o' the year's a-cold."
Wind, where the sky-line stretcheth,
How weird is thy song on the wires! —
' 'The call of Love's quick'ning breath,
The hint of the ceased pulse of death,
Are the song of my woven lyres."
Wind, when the panes are shaken,
To list theejl cannot forbear! —
"I wail of love's faith forsaken:
Of sunlit hopes by night o'ertaken,
And I shriek in a wild despair."
Wind, in the branch slow-started,
Where the moon's pure light is shed, —
Whispereth thou of the departed? —
' 'Peace waft I to the mournful-hearted,
And signal tidings of the dead."
Wind, when sere leaves fall faster,
How strong is thy psalm of the gale !
Like the rush of infinite water
On a shore of the hereafter,
And a countless host's all-hail!
Florence L. Lancaster.
London, England.