THE WINDS

The East Wind is a Bedouin,

And Nimbus is his steed;

Out of the dusk with the lightning's thin

Blue scimitar he flies afar,

Whither his rovings lead.

The Dead Sea waves

And Egypt caves

Of mummied silence laugh

When he mounts to quench the Siroc's stench

And to wrench

From his clutch the tyrant's staff.

The West Wind is an Indian brave

Who scours the Autumn's crest.

Dashing the forest down as a slave,

He tears the leaves from its limbs and weaves

A maelstrom for his breast.

Out of the night

Crying to fright

The earth he swoops to spoil —

There is furious scathe in the whirl of his wrath,

In his path

There is misery and moil.

The North Wind is a Viking — cold

And cruel, armed with death!

Born in the doomful deep of the old

Ice Sea that froze ere Ymir rose

From Niflheim's ebon breath.

And with him sail

Snow, Frost, and Hail,

Thanes mighty as their lord,

To plunder the shores of Summer's stores —

And his roar's

Like the sound of Chaos’ horde.

The South Wind is a Troubadour;

The Spring‘ s his serenade.

Over the mountain, over the moor,

He blows to bloom from the winter's tomb

Blossom and leaf and blade.

He ripples the throat

Of the lark with a note

Of lilting love and bliss,

And the sun and the moon, the night and the noon,

Are a-swoon —

When he woos them with his kiss.