Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,
The spirit of the western gale,
At morning’s break, at evening’s close,
Inhales the sweetness of the rose,
And hovers o’er th’ uninjured bloom,
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling
Vigor to the zephyr’s wing,
And she the glitter of the dew
Scatters on the rose’s hue.