The warm South-Wind went grieving,
Grieving across the plain,
And longed with a passionate longing
For the soft, wet lips of the Rain.
Stood up the scarlet roses,
All lovely in a row,
And with their sweets beguiled him:
“O South-Wind, do not go!”
And lolled the crimson poppies
In languid splendor deep,
With satin lips entreating─
“Stay, stay, South-Wind, and sleep!”
The pansy sweet attempted
To lure him to her breast:
“In cool dark beds of velvet,
O South-Wind, stay and rest.”
Yea, even the bashful lily,
With pearliness aglow,
Hung low her head and whispered─
“Dear South-Wind, do not go!”
But the South-Wind still goes grieving,
Grieving across the plain;
And longs with a passionate longing
For the soft wet lips of the Rain.
“The Soft Wet Lips of the Rain” as it appears in Higginson’s The Vanishing Race (1911).