Classic Poem

O SWEET South Wind!
Long hast thou lingered 'midst those islands fair,
Which lie, enchanted, on the Indian deep,
Like sea-maids all asleep,
Charmed by the cloudless sun and azure air!
O sweetest Southern Wind!
Pause here awhile, and gently now unbind
Thy dark rose-crowned hair!

Wilt thou not unloose now,
In this, the bluest of all hours,
Thy passion-coloured flowers? —
Rest; and let fall the fragrance from thy brow,
On Beauty's parted lips and closed eyes,
And on her cheeks, which crimson like the skies;
And slumber on her bosom, white as snow,
Whilst starry Midnight flies!

We, whom the northern blast
Blows on, from night till morn, from morn till eve,
Hearing thee, sometimes grieve
That our poor summer's day not long may last:
And yet, perhaps, 'twere well
We should not ever dwell
With thee, sweet Spirit of the sunny South;
But touch thy odorous mouth
Once, and be gone unto our blasts again,
And their bleak welcome, and our wintry snow;
And arm us (by enduring) for that pain
Which the bad world sends forth, and all its woe!