Classic Poem

'T IS said that the South-Wind loved a flower,
And wooed her, long ago.
But alas, the North-Wind loved her too,
And he was the South-Wind's foe.

Notus was gentle and soft and mild,
And the flower loved him well,
For he talked of love and he sang and sighed
In the trees around her dell.

And one bright day in the early spring,
When the air was soft, and a tide
Of music swelled from each budding tree,
The flower became his bride.

The North-Wind heard and he vowed revenge,
And when autumn came again,
He breathed his rage on the icy blast,
And rushed to the haunts of men.

Then Notus fled, as he needs must fly,
Where the North-Wind reigns alone.
And Boreas spoke to the flowret thus,
In his softest, kindest tone:

“Notus, thy cowardly lover is dead,
For he could not live near me,
But thou shalt be queen of my vast domains,
If only my bride thou'lt be.”

He took her hand in his icy palm,
But she died while he talked of love,
And he buried her deep in the frozen ground,
And heaped the snow above.

Then the North-Wind wept sad, frozen tears,
But the South-Wind never knew.
And still he thinks he will find his flower,
As he wanders the meadows through.

For oft, in the coldest winters come,
Hours when spring seems near,
Then the South-Wind roams thro' the wasted fields
And seeks for his flowret dear.

But alas! ere ever he finds his bride,
Boreas comes, and then
Back he must flee to his own domain,
He must leave his love again.