On the Sea IV (To the West Wind)

This is thy wind, O perfumed west,
With spikenard and apple in his wings!
Thou comest forth of the treasuries of the traders in spice—
Thou art not of the treasuries of the wind.
Thou waftest me on swallow’s wings, and proclaimest liberty for me;
Like pure myrrh from the bundle of spices thou art chosen.
How must men long for thee, which for thy sake
Ride over the crest of the sea on the back of a plank!
Stay not thine hand from the ship
Either when day abideth or in the cool breath of the night;
But beat out the deep, and tear the heart of the seas and touch
The holy mountains, and there shalt thou rest.
Rebuke thou the east wind which tosseth the sea into tempest
Until he maketh its heart like a seething pot.
What shall the captive do, in the hand of God,
One moment held back, and one moment sent forth free?
Truly the secret of my quest is in the hand of the Highest,
Who formeth the mountain heights and createth the wind.