Was there another Spring than this? I half remember through the haze Of glimmering nights and golden days, A broken pinioned birdling's note, An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat, A wandering through rain-beaten ways! Lean closer, love--I have thy kiss! Was there another Spring than this?
The ruddy poppies bend and bow Diane! do you remember? The sun you knew shines proudly now The lake still lists the breezes' vow; Your towers are fairer for their stains, Each stone you smiled upon remains. Sing low, where is Diane? Diane do you remember?
I come to find you through the years-- Diane! do you remember? For none may rule my love's soft fears. The ladies now are not your peers, I seek you thro' your tarnished halls, Pale sorrow on my spirit falls High, low--where is Diane? Diane do you remember?
I crush the poppies where I tread-- Diane! do you remember? Your flower of life--so bright, so red-- She does not hear--Diane is dead. I pace the sunny bowers alone Where nought of her remains but stone. Sing low--where is Diane? Diane does not remember.
If you were but a rose--dear love-- And I your bird, with dip of wing To tell a promise of the Spring And with a golden swift caress My happy careless love confess, No pain such gentle vows could bring, No tears should stay my flight above, If you were but a rose--dear love.
Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day Why shall not we whose hearts are light Put by the coming of the night, Catch glints of rapture from the sky, The scents that swing where lilies lie, And ring them to a garland white To ease the pain of life away? Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day!
Her hair was twined with vine leaves thro' the gold, The leopard skin about her shoulders flung Showed gleams of her as marble--fair and cold; I breathed not--listening to the song she sung.
Hither and thither thro' the solemn world, Glory of purple, passionate blazing red Glints thro' the gloom, and thro' the grey is swirled-- Ah! but the leaves twined sweet about her head.
"Heedless--men pass me in their search for life, Hunting for altars to their souls' fine fires, Crying the sun or joy of toil and strife And know not that 'tis I--their heart desires.
They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast, The haze and perfume of a Summer's day, The silver stealing o'er the twilight West Are joys more rich than all the world's display."