The Western wind had loved the Spartan prince.
He used to course throughout his curly hair,
And had been once enjoyed by Hyacinth;
But his true love would be Apollo fair.
You whistler of the Spring, your loss is great,
Beloved for your breeze that clothes the plains.
Alas that Love should deign another fate,
And shine the brightest light upon your pain.
Your coming sprouts the many crops and fruits,
But you would have one flower if you could–
That rarest blossom for your want acute–
Instead it's with the Sun god that he stood.
And off they ran to Summer when he shined,
In deeply-nighted Winter they reclined.
A place for my poems 