And from afar,
From Afric’s strand,
Siroccan greetings come to thee!
The monsoon and simoom,
In the soft empurpled Orient,
At mention of thy name
Doff all the hats of Heathendom!
And all combined in one vast aggregation,
Cry out hail, hail, thrice hail to thee,
Who after years, and centuries, and cycles e’en,
Hast made the winds incarnate!
To thee
The visible expression in the flesh,
Material and tangible,
Of all that goes to make the element
That rages, blusters, blasts, and blows!
And if the poet’s mind speaks true,
If he can penetrate their purposes at all,
It is not far from their intent
To lift thee on their broad November wings
So high
That none but gods can ever hope
Again to gaze upon thy face!
SOME ARE AMATEURS
Shakespeare was partly wrong – the world’s a stage,
This is admitted by the bard’s detractors.
Had William seen some Hamlets of this age
He’d not have called all men upon it actors.