West Wind in Winter by Alice Meynell — Read

Another day awakes. And who --

Changing the world -- is this?

He comes at whiles, the winter through,

West Wind! I would not miss

His sudden tryst: the long, the new

Surprises of his kiss.

Vigilant, I make haste to close

With him who comes my way,

I go to meet him as he goes;

I know his note, his lay, / His colour and his morning-rose, / And I confess his day.

My window waits; at dawn I hark / His call; at morn I meet / His haste around the tossing park / And down the softened street; / The gentler light is his: the dark, / The grey -- he turns it sweet.

So too, so too, do I confess / My poet when he sings.

He rushes on my mortal guess / With his immortal things.

I feel, I know, him. On I press -- / He finds me 'twixt his wings.