The West Wind (Bryant)

Beneath the forest's skirts I rest,Whose branching pines rise dark and high,And hear the breezes of the WestAmong the threaded foliage sigh.

Sweet Zephyr! why that sound of wo?Is not thy home among the flowers?Do not the bright June roses blow,To meet thy kiss at morning hours?

And lo! thy glorious realm outspreadYon stretching valleys, green and gay,And yon free hilltops, o'er whose headThe loose white clouds are borne away.

And there the full broad river runs,And many a fount wells fresh and sweet,To cool thee when the mid-day sunsHave made thee faint beneath their heat.

Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love;Spirit of the new wakened year!The sun in his blue realm aboveSmooths a bright path when thou art here.

In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,The wooing ring-dove in the shade;On thy soft breath, the new-fledged birdTakes wing, half happy, half afraid.

Ah! thou art like our wayward race;When not a shade of pain or illDims the bright smile of Nature's face,Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still.