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226

THE SOUTH-WEST WIND

Yea, for thou art the fragrant south-west wind,
Its gentle whisper in the summer trees,
Its gentle rustle of the sultry blind
Of summer—what doest thou on mounts that freeze,
Yea, what hast thou, my sweet, to do with these
High rocks that scorn and choke thy summer laughter?
If thou dost venture from thy green calm leas
Then of a surety thy step Death stalks after,
And soon will tremulous shudders shake thy knees
And dissolution thy white body seize:
O south-west wind of mine be wise, nor follow
Thy singer upward when the white mists swallow
His fast-receding form—not all Apollo
Hath shod with sandals stormier than the breeze.