WEST WIND IN WINTER

Another day awakes. And who —

Changing the world — is this?

He comes at whiles, the Winter through,

West Wind! I would not miss

His sudden tryst: the long, the new

Surprises of his kiss.

Vigilant, I make haste to close

With him who comes my way.

I go to meet him as he goes;

I know his note, his lay,

His colour and his morning rose;

And I confess his day.

My window waits; at dawn I hark

His call; at morn I meet

His haste around the tossing park

And down the softened street;

The gentler light is his; the dark,

The grey — he turns it sweet.

So too, so too, do I confess

My poet when he sings.

He rushes on my mortal guess

With his immortal things.

I feel, I know him. On I press —

He finds me‘ twixt his wings.