Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning,? 
With larks aloft, or skimming with the swallow, 
Or with blackbirds in a green, sun-glinted thicket? 

Oh, I heard you like a tyrant in the valley; 
Your ruffian haste shook the young, blossoming orchards;
You clapped rude hands, hallooing round the chimney, 
And white your pennons streamed along the river. 

You have robbed the bee, South Wind, in your adventure, 
Blustering with gentle flowers; but I forgave you 
When you stole to me shyly with scent of hawthorn.