gently fans the fevered head; it touches with a caress the parched lips
of the babe, and with murmur of song it lulls the child to rest.

"Hark to the voice of the wind."

It enters the counting room of the tired man of business, bringing a
perfume of flowers: he lays down his pen, while his thoughts go back to
the home of his boyhood, to the meadows, to the hillside covered with
flowers, the new-mown hay, and the tired brain is refreshed, he knows
not how, and the unseen messenger is gone--

"Hark to the voice of the wind!"

It visits the silent City of the Dead and gently scatters the leaves
over the new-made grave of a young child, sighing softly the while, the
voice now rising, now falling, sobbing and moaning, and at last dies
away in a melancholy sound, like the strings of an Aeolian harp touched
by unseen hands.

"Hark to the music of the wind!"

Human nature approaches the Divine in moments of great sacrifice,
forgiveness and self-forgetfulness.




PASSING THOUGHTS