THE CALL OF THE WINDS

Ho, come out with the wind of spring,

And step it blithely in woodlands waking; Friend am I of each growing thing

From the gray sod into sunshine breaking; Mine is the magic of twilights dim, Of violets blue on the still pool’s rim, Mine is the breath of the blossoms young Sweetest of fragrances storied or sung— Come, ye earth-children, weary and worn, I will lead you over the hills of morn.

Ho, come out with the summer wind, And loiter in meadows of ripening clover, Where the purple noons are long and kind, And the great white clouds drift fleecily over. Mine is immortal minstrelsy, The fellowship of the rose and bee, Beguiling laughter of willowed rills, The rejoicing of pines on inland hills, Come, ye earth-children, by dale and stream, I will lead you into the ways of dream.

Ho, when the wind of autumn rings

Through jubilant mornings crisp and golden, Come where the yellow woodland flings

Its hoarded wealth over by-ways olden. Mine are the grasses frosted and sere,