But never may come, of all comers

Least welcome, the rain,

To mix with his servant the summer's

Rose-garlanded train!

He would write, but his hours are as busy

As bees in the sun,

And the jubilant whirl of their dizzy

Dance never is done.

The message is more than a letter,

Let love understand,

And the thought of his joys even better

Than sight of his hand.

366 XXXI

366

Wind, high-souled, full-hearted

South-west wind of the spring!

Ere April and earth had parted,

Skies, bright with thy forward wing,

Grew dark in an hour with the shadow behind it, that bade not a bird dare sing.

Wind whose feet are sunny,

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