Spring Wind in London

I blow across the stagnant world,I blow across the sea,For me, the sailor's flag unfurled,For me, the uprooted tree.My challenge to the world is hurled;The world must bow to me.

I drive the clouds across the sky,I huddle them like sheep;Merciless shepherd-dog am IAnd shepherd-watch I keep.If in the quiet vales they lieI blow them up the steep.

Lo! In the tree-tops do I hide,In every living thing;On the moon's yellow wings I glide,On the wild rose I swing;On the sea-horse's back I ride,And what then do I bring?

And when a little child is illI pause, and with my handI wave the window curtain's frillThat he may understandOutside the wind is blowing still.. . . It is a pleasant land.

O stranger in a foreign place,See what I bring to you.This rain—is tears upon your face;I tell you—tell you trueI came from that forgotten placeWhere once the wattle grew.

All the wild sweetness of the flowerTangled against the wall.It was that magic, silent hour. . . .The branches grew so tallThey twined themselves into a bower.The sun shone. . . and the fall

Of yellow blossom on the grass!You feel that golden rain?Both of you could not hold, alas,(Both of you tried—in vain)A memory, stranger. So I pass. . . .It will not come again. 1909.