Classic Poem

To thee, fair love of mine, I used to read my verses.
But now of all Time's blows by far the bitterest curse is
That thou art far away.
But still God sends a friend. Thanks past all thanks I owe him.
Who has given his kindly heed to many a song and poem
By many a night and day.

Love, thou didst wear a crown of many-coloured flowers:
But he has gathered bays from the immortal bowers
Where song's god reigns supreme.
I thank God from my heart that I have had two hearers:
If these, and these alone, for joy's and sorrow's sharers,
My life, though dreary, is not all a dream.

“Wind-voices!” Yes: the wind's own voice is here,
The voice of every wind;—the voice that goes
Straight to the soft heart of the listening rose;
The voice that makes the seamen quake for fear
When the grim angry white-lipped reefs rise sheer
To leeward; and the voice that love's heart knows
When on the summer breeze a whisper grows
Yet more intense, more passionately clear.

Here is the thunder of the wind at sea,
And echo of the voice of passion's storm,
And loving message of the gentle warm
West Wind,—and here the North Wind's revelry:
And here the voice that makes the midnight strong
With love's despair transfigured into song.