West Wind in Winter

Another day awakes. And who —
   Changing the world — is this?
He comes at whiles, the Winter through,
   West Wind! I would not miss
His sudden tryst: the long, the new
   Surprises of his kiss.

Vigilant, I make haste to close
   With him who comes my way.
I go to meet him as he goes;
   I know his note, his lay,
His colour and his morning rose;
   And I confess his day.

My window waits; at dawn I hark
   His call; at morn I meet
His haste around the tossing park
   And down the softened street;
The gentler light is his; the dark,
   The grey — he turns it sweet.

So too, so too, do I confess
   My poet when he sings.
He rushes on my mortal guess
   With his immortal things.
I feel, I know him. On I press —
   He finds me ’twixt his wings.