Poets

Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms! The sunset glory fadeth in the west; The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest;

O wind that blows out of the West, Thou hast swept over mountain and sea, Dost thou bear on thy swift, glad wings The breath of my love to me?

Nay, you wrong her my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown: One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the