But out from the clouds,
    Out from the agonized dust that enshrouds;
    True kings shall arise who shall reign
    In homes on the populous plain! 
  Great cities shall gather and grow
    In glories that never shall wane,
  Far over the valleys below. 
    With merry yet measureless might
  They conquer the waste with the gladness that brings
    To the desert the newest delight. 
  The barren shall bloom as the rose, and the land
    That is sleeping, a wilderness wasted and wild,
  And dreaming to welcome its master’s command,
  Shall leap at the touch of his hand,
    His voice shall obey as a child!

“SING ME A SONG, O, WIND.”

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    Of musical cadence sweet,
  Which in the wood around
    Shall often and oft repeat;
  Soft as an angel’s song
    That never can give annoy,
  Which in the balmy notes
    Shall tell me its tales of joy.

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    Of countries beyond the sea,
  Which in thy wand’rings oft
    Thou pass with a footstep free;
  Lands that are ever green
    ’Neath blaze of the tropic spells,
  Bright with their blessed suns,
    Where summer forever dwells.

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    Of groves with a verdure fair,
  Waving their boughs of green
    O’er solitudes grand and rare;
  Groves with a stillness sweet,
    With cheering and cooling shades,
  Where from its cares the race
    May rest in the leafy glades.

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    Of birds with a plumage gay,
  That with their carols sweet
    Give praise to the God of day;
  Music of sad refrain,
    Though fond in its tender chime,
  Thou in thy travels wide
    Hast heard in a fairy clime.

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    Of crystalline brooks at play,
  Which with the murmurs low
    Make sweetest of sounds all day;
  Winding through meadows wide,
    And blossoming fields between,
  Fringed with the willows tall
    On emerald banks of green.

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    Of flowers that are fond and fair,
  Filling the fields of earth
    With beauty and fragrance rare;
  Wafting an incense pure
    On every breeze that blows,
  Drawn from the lily’s heart
    And soul of the royal rose.

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    Of man in his brightest homes;
  Tell if he there meet joy,
    Wherever his longing roams;
  Tell if there’s e’er a place
    Where, all his ambition spent,
  He toils throughout all his days
    And knoweth no discontent.

  Sing me a song, O, Wind,
    For I am a-weary now;
  Life, with its woes and cares,
    Hangs heavily on my brow;
  Sing me a song of cheer,
    My heart that is sad to ease;
  Sing in thy brightness and joy
    With heavenly harmonies!