Beneath the forest's jeans I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the threaded leaves sigh.
Sweet Goddess! why that sound of woe?
Is your home not among the flowers?
Do the bright Spring roses not blow,
To meet your kiss at the morning hour?
And below your glorious realm outspread—
Your stretching valleys, green and gray,
And your free hilltops, over whose head
The loose white clouds are carried away.
And there the proud, wide river runs,
And many a fountain flies fresh and sweet,
To cool you when the mid-day suns
Have made you faint beneath their heat.
You, wind of joy, and youth, and love;
Spirit of the newly awakened year!
The sun in his blue and gleaming sky above
Clears a bright path when you are here.
In lawns the murmuring bee is heard,
The wooing dove down in the shade;
On your soft breath, the new-to-flight bird
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid.
You are like our wayward race;—
When not a shade of pain or ill
Dims the bright smile of Nature's face,
You love to sigh and murmur still.