Classic Poem

The winter has deflowered garden and heath;
Nought lives; and on the rock's unchanging gray,
Where the Atlantic's endless billows play,
The last pistil to petal clings in death.

Yet, what rare scents this sea breeze furnisheth
I know not — grateful, warm effluvia they
That bid my heart to mad delight give way;
Whence comes this strangely odoriferous breath?

Ah, now I know! — 'tis from the far-off West,
Where the Antilles swoon in languorous rest
Beneath the torrid occidental heat;

And from this reef, by Cymric billows rolled,
I've breathed, in winds my natal air made sweet,
America's dear flowers I loved of old.