AEOLUS

Leonard Bloomfield 1887-1949

Ah, breeze, where sleep'st thou?  Come, oh come,

This langour of my frame dispel;

Arise, - thy own loved harp is dumb;

Arise, and bid thy chorus swell.

Stop not, but breathe with fresh'ning power

O'er full-blown roses in your way;

Wave the laburnum's pendant flower; -

Yet stop not 'midst their sweets to play.

Sweep o'er the hay-field and the grove;

Thy own harp waits thee, come along;

Whose soft vibrations whisper love,

And fancied choirs of heavenly song.

Thanks, charming zephyr. -Hark!  That tone!

Be true, sweet harp; hush all but thee:

Perform thy task untouch'd, alone,

And pour thy tide of harmony.

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