I Shall Seethe Hour Of Death Draw

Ye Winds Ye Unseen Currents Of The Air, Softly Ye Played A Few Brief Hours Ago; Ye Bore The Murmuring Bee; Ye Tossed The Air O'er Maiden Cheeks, That Took A Fresher Glow; Ye Rolled The Round White Cloud Through Depths Of Blue; Ye Shook From Shaded Flowers The Lingering Dew; Before You The Catalpa's Blossoms Flew, Light Blossoms, Dropping On The Grass Like Snow.

The Stormy March Has Come At Last, With Winds And Clouds And Changing Skies; I Hear The Rushing Of The Blast That Through The Snowy Valley Flies.

But Winter Has Yet Brighter Scenes-he Boasts Splendors Beyond What Gorgeous Summer Knows; Or Autumn With His Many Fruits, And Woods All Flushed With Many Hues.

Ere, In The Northern Gale, The Summer Tresses Of The Trees Are Gone, The Woods Of Autumn, All Around Our Vale, Have Put Their Glory On.

But 'neath Yon Crimson Tree Lover To Listening Maid Might Breathe His Flame, Nor Mark, Within Its Roseate Canopy, Her Blush Of Maiden Shame.