Go seek her out all courteously,
     And say I come,
Wind of spices whose song is ever
     Epithalamion
O, hurry over the dark lands
     And run upon the sea
For seas and land shall not divide us
     My love and me.

Now, wind, of your good courtesy
     I pray you go,
And come into her little garden
     And sing at her window;
Singing: The bridal wind is blowing
     For love is at his noon;
And soon will your true love be with you,
     Soon, O soon.

–James Joyce [See, Nora, I can write something that people can read.]