THE WIND

Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing— Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession.

"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses— Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing; Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes— She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!"

"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!"

"Straight from my wooing I come—my lips are bedewed with her kisses— My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!"