Noon
In pain must every bond be riven That winds around the inner eye , The orphaned heart with woe have striven , Ere it the sullen world can fly . The body melteth in its weeping , Its bitter sighs the bosom burn ; The world a grave becometh , keeping The heart , like ashes in an urn . In deep thought a pilgrim was walking along a narrow foot-path which ran up the mountain side . Noon had passed . A strong wind whistled through the blue air . Its dull and ever-changing sounds lost themselves as they came . Had it perhaps flown through the regions of childhood , or through other whispering lands ?