James Gates Percival


I FEEL newer life in every gale;
    The winds, that fan the flowers, 
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
    Tell of serener hours-- 
    Of hours that glide unfelt away 
    beneath the sky of May.

The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
    From his blue throne of air, 
And where his whispering voice in music falls,
    Beauty is budding there; 
    The bright ones of the valley break 
    Their slumbers, and awake.

The waving verdue rolls along the plain,
    And the wide forest weaves, 
To welcome back its playful mates again,
    A canopy of leaves; 
    And from its darkening shadow floats 
    A gush of trembling notes.

Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
    The tresses of the woods 
With the light dallying of the west-wind play;
    And the full-brimming floods, 
    As gladly to their goal they run, 
    Hail the returning sun.

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