Classic Poem

No storm to day, no lightning's glare,
No thunder shall astound you,
But western breezes hover there,
To winnow health around you.

Warm as the virgin's breath who sings
Her first love's first complaint,
Pure as the air from cherub wings
That fan a dying saint.

Fair as those days of Infancy,
So fair, when, nearly ended,
With all her snow-drop purity,
Youth's primrose sweets are blended!