Classic Poem

Blow gently over my garden,
— Wind of the Southern sea,
In the hour that my Love cometh
— And calleth me!
My Love shall entreat me sweetly,
— With voice like the wood-pigeon;
" I am here at the gate of thy garden,
— Here in the dawn. "

Then I shall rise up swiftly
— All in the rose and gray,
And open the gate to my Lover
— At dawning of day.
He hath crowns of pain on His forehead,
— And wounds in His hands and feet;
But here mid the dews of my garden
— His rest shall be sweet.

Then blow not out of your forests,
— Wind of the icy North;
But Wind of the South that is healing,
— Rise and come forth!
And shed your musk and your honey,
— And spill your odors of spice,
For one who forsook for my garden
— His Paradise!