West Wind in Winter
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.

Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (lane@elcore.net)
Created April 8, 2001; not revised.