Soft wind of summer's eve,
Fresh from blue fields and paradisial air,
Methinks in happy vision I perceive
Thee winged with floating hair,
A spirit quaintly dight
In robe of airiest gossamer outspread,
Roaming the earth in innocent delight,
By wayward fancy led;
In sweet unconsciousness,
Wafting the cool delights through breathless ways,
That speak again in music, and confess
Thy joys with grateful praise;
Waking with magic wings
Life and fresh grace in tree and vine and flower,
Till all alive, with airy whisperings
They fill the twilight hour.
Out of the deep land's breast
A murmur comes, of many glad sounds made,
Gathered from lake and plain and mountain crest,
And meadows bathed in shade;
A universal sigh
Of calm content and gratitude to thee,
Who feignest not to listen, being shy,
As such rare spirits be.
Through all the arid day
Hast thou been sleeping sweetly in the hill,
Unseen by woodland fairies in their play,
While all around was still;
Save when some hidden bird,
Full of sly wildwood mischief, suddenly
Broke on thy dream 'mid foliage unstirred,
In mocking melody,
Waking at quiet eve
In most divine refreshment and delight
To bathe in air and over earth to weave
Thy far erratic flight.
Thy light approach unreels
A band of dancing dimples o'er the lake,
Such as on charméd nights the skimming keels
Of fairies' shallops make.
Thy breath is in the vine,
That half my window's prospect serves to screen;
Ah! are not those thy lovely eyes that shine
The woven leaves between?
Welcome, celestial guest!
With what fond message comest thou to me,--
What secret gift of hope or rapture blest,
Of all thy fair eyes see?
Thou art so shy a sprite!--
Here! breathe it through the vine into my ear!
From out the bosom of the deepening night
Thy arch laugh answers clear.
Thou art not here nor there,
Thou comest not at this or that one's call,
I know thee now, that thou art everywhere,
Thy blessings free to all!
Ah! what a bliss to feel
Thy cool breath o'er hot cheek and forehead play,
Delicious to the sense as airs that steal
From flowery woods of May.
How pleasant to the ear
Thy songs are, that their ceaseless music keep,
Soft--soft, like voices sleepy children hear
Call from the shores of sleep.
