 | Songs of Consolation |  |
17
TO THE WINDS.
(Suggested by Sir Edward Burne Jones's picture, “Sponsa de Libano.”)
1
WIND of the West, arise!Speak to my wintry soul!
Lighten with balm Life's bowl,
Empty of cheer that lies!
Over Life's leaden skies
Sweeping from pole to pole,
Clear from the clouds of dole
Wash thou the weary eyes!
Why are thy voices dumb?
See where the crocus mute
Calleth on thee to come;
Hark, how the finches flute,
Syllabling still thy name,
Bidding thee blow for shame!
2
Wind of the North, depart!Back to thy banks of snow!
Wine hast thou poured of woe
Into my thirsting heart.
Better the hermit's part,
Friendless and lone to go,
Life an eternal No,
Solace without and smart!
18
Be to my soul denied,
Grant me at least surcease,
Let me at least abide
Stirless of hope and pride,
Leave me at least in peace.
3
Wind of the South, appear!Summon the Summer day!
Gladsome the world and gay
Make with the meadows' cheer!
Winter o'erlong and fear
Have with us had their stay.
Bid them away, away!
Back to their dungeons drear.
Where hast thou lain so long?
Oft, when the world was white,
Oft, in the winter's night,
Oft have I called for thee,
Bidding thee blow for me,
Quicken my soul with song.
4
Wind of the East, away!Stir not the Springtide calm!
Back, with thy wailing psalm,
Flinch from the fields of May!
Back to thy graves of gray!
See, with its breath of balm,
Stirring in herb and halm,
Cometh the Summer day.
Hence with thy blast of bale!
Hence with thy poisoned thorn!
19
Blown on the April gale,
Telleth the vernal tale,
Hope in the heart new-born!
5
Winds of the world, all hail!Fountains of dearth and death,
Angels of storm and scaith,
Eastland and Northland gale,
Hence with your Winter's tale!
Ye of the balmy breath,
Come, as the Preacher saith,
Blow on my garden-pale!
Come, o ye South and West,
Quicken the waste for me,
Hearten with herb and tree
Meadow and moorland's breast,
Willing the woodbirds nest,
Willing the new world be!
| Songs of Consolation | |