Poems with rhymes of sighing

Wild wild wind, wilt thou never cease thy sighing?
Dark dark night, wilt thou never wear away?
Cold cold church, in thy death sleep lying,

Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -

On your midnight pallet lying,
Listen, and undo the door:
Lads that waste the light in sighing

CHOKED with ill weeds my garden lay a-dying,
Hard was the ground, no bud had heart to blow,
Yet shone your smile there, with your soft breath sighing:

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,

Mayflower, Mayflower, slowly hither flying,
Trembling westward o'er yon balking sea,
Hearts within `Farewell dear England' sighing,

For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:

All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd she for her dear;
Repay'd each blast with sighing,

And all winds go sighing
For sweet things dying.

And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing,
Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,
'Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,

My roses, tell her, pleading, all the fondness and the sighing,
All the longing of a heart that reaches thirsting for its bliss;
And tell her, tell her, roses, that my lips and eyes are dying

All our prayers and prying --
All our tears and sighing,

To see the year dying,
When winter winds
Set the yellow wood sighing:

The sick have ceased their sighing,
And have even found the grace
Of a smile when they were dying

Who spoke of evil, when young feet were flying
In fairy-rings around the echoing hall
Soft airs thro' braided locks in perfume sighing,

'How can you still be sighing
When smiles are everywhere?
The little birds are flying

The white one flame, and the night-long crying;
The viewless passers; the world's low sighing

The camp-fire sparks are flying
Up from the pine-log's glow,
The wandering wind is sighing

Ye see not, but hear ye not wild wings flying
To the future that wakes from the past that died?
Is grief still sleeping, is joy not sighing

"Go on now wid yer blarney," said the widow softly sighing;
And she went to pull his whiskers, when dismay her bosom smote. . . .
Her ould red shawl! 'Twas missin' where she'd left it bravely drying -