Classic Poem

Many suns will lag and loiter from the Blue Hills to the sea,
Dragging lengthening days behind them to the vague eternity;
Many moons will arch their crescents over forest, field, and fen
Ere the storm-clouds cease to lower and the trade-wind blows again.

But he's coming, oh, he's coming, tho' he's long upon the way!
We'll forget the weary waiting when he bounds across the bay!
He's been trafficking with Boreas within his chilly den,
And we'll profit by his bargains when the trade-wind blows again.

He is roaming thro' the piney woods, and storing up the scent!
He is bottling for us perfumes that no chemist can invent!
He's exploring vale and mountain, lilied lake and mossy glen
For the presents he will bring us when the trade-wind blows again.

He is scouring round for ozone—simply cramming all his trunks
With the precious stuff to heave at us in large and luscious chunks!
Talk about the gifts of Sheba to the luckiest of men,
Why, they won't be in it, brother, when the trade-wind blows again!