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.