Classic Poem

I.

Zephyrs , that wait on my lady,
 Plumes, that still soothe her to rest,
My spirit grows jealous already,
 Lest in blessing ye too should be blest;
Yet lift ye the curls of her tresses,
 And bend to her lips at each sigh,
And fold her in fondest caresses,
 That these may be mine when ye fly;—
Sweet zephyrs,
 These bring me whenever ye fly!

II.

I know why ye tend on the showers,
 I know why ye glide to the deep,
And watch by the side of the flowers
 To rifle their lips as they sleep;
Their freshness and odor ye carry
 To woo the fair maiden to rest,
And then at her lattice ye tarry,
 Like blessings to rob from her breast:
Sly zephyrs!
 Would, like ye, I could also be blest!