English poem
The Winds Of Dawn
by Henry A. Beers (1847–1926)
Whither do ye blow? For now the moon is low. Whence is it that ye come, And where is it ye go? All night the air was still, The crickets' song was shrill; But now there runs a hum And rustling through the trees. A breath of coolness wakes, As on Canadian lakes, And on Atlantic seas, And each high Alpine lawn Begin the winds of dawn.