“Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze—
Are all thine acts as unkind as these?
Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free—
Yet mine is the power to follow thee.”
Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing,
And tracked the wind, in imagining.
He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest,
Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast,
And with waving wing bore the prize away
To a happy group ’mid the flowers at play,