God of the West Wind, awake!
See who fain thy sleep would break*—
She, the morning's gracious power,
Born in its most lovely hour,
When the stars retire in night
For the mighty fates to write
On their rays the word and sign
Only prophets may divine;
When the blushing clouds are breaking,
As if Love himself were waking—
When the sun first turns the mist
Into melted amethyst—
She hath bade the north wind keep
In his caverns dark and deep—
Told the south wind, that his breath
Fades too soon the morning wreath—
Sent the east wind where the sands
Sweep around the pilgrim bands—
Her sweet hand is on thy brow—
Wake thee, gentle West Wind, now.
She doth want thy wings to bear
Morning's messages through air,
Where the dewy grass is keeping
Watch above the skylark's sleeping;
Stir the clover with thy wing,
Send him 'mid the clouds to sing.
Thou must go and kiss the rose,
Crimson with the night's repose;
She will sigh for coming day,
Bear thou that sweet sigh away;
On the violet's sleepy eyes
Pour the azure of the skies;
From the rich and purple wreath
Steal the fragrance of its breath;
Wake the bees to the sweet spoil
Which rewards their summer toil;
Shake the bough, and rouse the bird,
Till one general song is heard;
Fling aside the glittering leaves,
Till the darkest nook receives
Somewhat of the morning beam;
Stir the ripples of the stream,
Till it flash like silver back
In the white swan's radiant track.
Rouse thee for Aurora's sake—
God of the West Wind, awake!
