Winds wet with the eager breath of spray,
Warm and sweet from the oceans we have dreamed of;
From gardens of Cathay.

The empty factory windows, row on row,
Warm sullenly beneath the afterglow,
Burn topaz out of dust and dim the flare
Of the street-lamps below.

In the smoky park the dingy plane-trees stir,
Green branches in the twilight fade and blur;
A lonely girl walks slowly through the square
And the wind speaks to her.

Speaks of the sunset scattered on the sea,
And the spring blowing northward radiantly;
Flaming in lightning from cyclonic dark,
Dreams of delights to be.

Tomorrow there will be orchards filled with fruit,
And song of meadow lark and song of flute;
Far from the city there are lover's fields,
Lips eloquent and mute.

Warm are the winds out of the ebbing day,
Blowing the ships and the spring into the bay,
I smell the cherry blossoms falling gaily
In gardens of Cathay.

Paris, 1919