Classic Poem

Soft gale, while you fan me with light viewless wing,
O tell me o'er what distant plains you have stray'd!
If from Devon this freshness, these odours you bring;
And if on my Damon's high poplars you've play'd?

'Twas his hand, gentle Zephyr, that planted them there;
And dear are those high-waving poplars to me;
Ah! could I but flit thro' the regions of air,
And play on their dew-dripping foliage like thee!

If, haply fatigued with the noon's sultry hours,
You see him beneath their green umbrage recline,
Breathe this kiss on his lips, as you fly o'er his bowers,
And whisper — ah no! do not whisper, 'tis mine.

Yet tell me, those lips are adorn'd with a smile,
And tell me, that health decks his fair open brow;
For this can the pangs of long absence beguile, —
For this my glad heart shall with gratitude bow.

If sickness depresses his elegant form;
If grief's freezing hand steals content from his breast;
Such tidings demand the rude breath of a storm , —
You will not — you cannot deprive me of rest!

Yet, O gentle gale! now you witness my fears,
To Devon convey these sad proofs of my woe;
Let Damon's fair flow'rets begemm'd with my tears,
And let my soft sighs thro' his poplar leaves blow.

If then, aerial friend, while you're soaring above,
You see him to gather a myrtle incline,
Fan my tears to his breast from that emblem of love,
And tell him, yes, tell him, kind Zephyr, they're mine .