I RIDE on the wings of the north-west wind 

From my home in the frozen seas, 

Where I lie and rest with a quiet mind 

When bloweth the summer breeze.

I filch the rainbow from out the skies,

And place it on maple leaves; 

I whisper the swallow, away he flies

From his nest beneath the eaves.

I work in the dark of the blackest night, 

And paint pictures upon the pane;

What though the sun in his noonday might 

Dims them, I limn them again.

I draw, as I please, the tender spray 

Of fern, with its feathery grace;

And if that dies out in the sun's warm ray, 

I put a pine in its place.

But this is only my pleasant play 

While sunbeams lie and dream;

For I clasp in my chilling clutch by day 

The throat of the gurgling stream.

I still its music. I strip the trees 

Of their leaves, and kill the flowers;

I hush the hum of the busy bees, 

Who work during summer hours.

I tumble the fences, and lift the grain

From where it lies in the soil; 

I pinch the poor on their way to gain

Their bread by their daily toil.

But when spring days come I change my mind,

For I am a fickle soul; 

So I mount on the wings of the south-west winds,

And ride to the Arctic Pole.