There's a mellow warmth in the soft south wind. When snows of the north have fled, The gods be thanked for Spring; (Thus we of the East-climes sing) There are no regrets for the days behind, But there's joy in the days ahead, Oh, joy in the Hopes of Spring! As an incense burned in a golden bowl Casts spells of divining power And opens the Future's gates, So the wind from the south creates A mystic spell o'er the poet's soul, A vision of tree and flower In bloom beside jasper gates. And the south wind brings to the poet's soul A dream of a golden strand, And mirrors the sun-sprite's smile Who dwells in the climes worth while, For the dreamer's dream marks the poet's goal In the days of the near-at-hand, 'Tis the land where the sun-sprites smile. |