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ALL hail to thee, O son of Æolus!
All hail to thee, most high Borean lord!
The lineal descendant of the Winds art thou.
Child of the Cyclone,
Cousin to the Hurricane,
Tornado’s twin,
All hail!
The zephyrs of the balmy south
Do greet thee;
The eastern winds, great Boston’s pride,
In manner osculate caress thy massive cheek;
Freeze onto thee,
And at thy word throw off congealment
And take on a soft caloric mood;
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!