ZEPHYR, for thy humid wing,Oh, how much I envy thee!
Thou to him canst tidings bringHow our parting saddens me!
In my breast, a yearning stillAs thy pinions wave, appears;Flow'rs and eyes, and wood, and hillAt thy breath are steeped in tears.
Yet thy mild wing gives relief,Soothes the aching eyelid's pain;Ah, I else had died for grief,Him ne'er hoped to see again.
To my love, then, quick repair,Whisper softly to his heart;Yet, to give him pain, beware,Nor my bosom's pangs impart.
Tell him, but in accents coy,That his love must be my life;Both, with feelings fraught with joy,In his presence will be rife.
1815.
-----
