SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,
Made rival with the air,
To give Perenna's lip a kiss,
And fan her wanton hair:
Bring me but one, I'll promise thee,
Instead of common showers,
Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me,
And all beset with flowers.
More verses by Robert Herrick
- To The Willow-Tree
- To The Water-Nymphs Drinking At Thefountain
- An Epitaph Upon A Child
- How His Soul Came Ensnared
- Matins, Or Morning Prayer