To plunder the shores of Summer's stores—

And his roar's

Like the sound of Chaos' horde.

[Pg 53]

The South Wind is a Troubadour;

The Spring 's his serenade.

Over the mountain, over the moor,

He blows to bloom from the winter's tomb

Blossom and leaf and blade.

He ripples the throat

Of the lark with a note

Of lilting love and bliss,

And the sun and the moon, the night and the noon,

Are a-swoon—

When he woos them with his kiss.

[Pg 54]

[Pg 54]

TRANSCENDED

I who was learnèd in death's lore

Oft held her to my heart

 Prev. P 47/119 next