No one knows where the wind has been,
Who all it’s touched, how long ago;
But the same sorrow lived with whomever it was,
That much, I think, we know —
For a heart is a shore on which waves will crash,
And a life is just rocks on which hopes must dash,
And the wind, just a chorus to sing our pain,
As it has done, and will do,
Again
And again
