With loving cheek pressed close against thy horny breast,
  I hear the roar of sap mounting within thy veins;
Tingling with buds, thy great hands open towards the west,
  To catch the sweetheart wind that brings the sister rains.

O winds that blow from out the fruitful mouth of God,
  O rains that softly fall from his all-loving eyes,
You that bring buds to trees and daisies to the sod,
  O God's best Angel of the Spring, in me arise.