Classic Poem

O tender Mother on high that hast the four
Clear winds for breath, be gracious unto these;
That hers may mix the savour of the seas
Of Italy, and scents from every shore
Thy sweet South West wind sweeps her odours o'er;
That his may bear the banners of the breeze
That rides where the pure keen blue glaciers freeze
And Alpine heights ascend for evermore.

O Mother, mingle in their meeting breath
Thine own soul gathered from the East and West
And North and South, and extreme peaks of death
And passes of new life,—and bare thy breast
That either soul may nestle safe therein,
And let its melted snow-wreaths cleanse from sin.