To Wahilla Enhotulle

(To the South Wind) O Wind, hast thou a sigh Robbed from her lips divine Upon this sunbright day— A token or a sign? Oh, take me, Wind, into Thy confidence, and tell Me, whispering soft and low, The secrets of the dell. Oh, teach me what it is The meadow flowers say As to and fro they nod Thro’ all the golden day. Oh, hear, Wind of the South, And whispering softer yet, Unfold the story of The lone pine tree’s regret. Oh, waft me echoes sweet That haunt the meadow glen— The scent of new-mown hay, And songs of harvest men; The coolness of the sea And forest dark and deep— The soft reed notes of Pan, And bleat of straying sheep. Oh, make me, Wind, to know The language of the bee— The burden of the wild Bird’s rapturous melody; The password of the leaves Upon the cottonwood; And let me join them in Their mystic brotherhood.