Sweep over me, O lovely winds, That shake the tasseled oak! The patience of the ancient earth Turns blossom at your stroke, The very grievance of the air Thins out to silver smoke. Sweep over me, O youthful winds, And I will lie as dead Upon the leaves that lived last year, With new leaves overhead. Has your beneficence no balm For hearts grown wearied? There's weariness of labor done That dark and sleep appease; And fragrant weariness of flesh, Delightfuller than ease; But there's a weariness that comes More wearily than these, With neither blossoms in its hair, Nor sleepy sound of rain, Nor bearing ointments to allay The heart that's sick with pain. There is a weariness that comes And does not go again. O ancient earth that never tires, O heavens that renew, O winds that foam and flash and blow Forever fresh as dew, There is a wounded thing that lies Face down, and calls on you. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HIS LADY'S HAND by THOMAS WYATT NEARER by ROBERT MALISE BOWYER NICHOLS A SONG TO CELIA by CHARLES SEDLEY DEATH AT DAYBREAK by ANNE REEVE ALDRICH THE AUTHOR'S PARTING ADDRESS TO THE MUSE by BERNARD BARTON |