O, south wind! from thy chambers,
Where sleep the tropic isles,
Where bloom the lime and orange,
And endless summer smiles.

Breathe on this desolation—
This boundless waste of snow;
Unseal the silent fountains,
And bid the streamlets flow.

Too long thy frost winds, Winter,
Have howled around the door
Of many a humble dwelling,
Where shrink the friendless poor.

Too long, the worn and weary,
The lonely and the sad,
Have pined for warmth and sunshine,
To cheer and make them glad.

All yearn for that sweet season
When children haunt the grove,
List to the wood birds singing
Their matin songs of love.

And seek, in sunny places,
Along the winding glen,
The first dear forest blossoms,
Far from the homes of men.

Our spirits, O, ye waters!
Shall be like you, unbound,
When ye break forth in music,
And verdure clothes the ground.

Though many years have vanished
Since first I saw the light,
Although my brow is wrinkled
And all my locks are white.

Yet still I fain would linger
In life's mild evening ray,
Though few and pale the blossoms
That spring along my way.

For nature kindly spares me,
Spite of the waste of time,
A firm elastic footstep,
The rugged steeps to climb.

And still, I love full often
Through woods and glades to stray,
And feel, and breathe the zephyrs,
That greet me on my way.

And still, I love to wander,
Childlike, by gurgling brook.
To seek for spring's first blossoms,
In warm and sheltered nook.

Then haste! O, balmy south wind,
Breathe o'er this waste of snow;
Bring back the merry wood birds,
And bid the violet blow.