Poetry Archives

O wind of God, that blowest in the mind,
  Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me;
Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind,
  Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see;
  Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree,
And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove—
High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!

Blow not the less though winter cometh then;
  Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen;
Let the spring creep into the ground again,
  The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen:
  All lives in thee that ever once hath been!
Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms;
Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.