And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows, In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes; Where the earth was holy with lily and rose, And the myriad life of the grasses.
And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaks To his sweetheart; to whom he has given A kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks, And her eyes with the laughter of heaven.
The sound of the sap!--What a simple thing!-- But the sound of the sap had the power To make the song-sparrow come and sing, And the winter woodlands flower!
I have seen her limpid eyes, Large with gradual laughter, rise In the wild-rose nettles; Slowly, like twin flowers, unfold, Smiling,--when the wind, behold! Whisked them into petals.
I have seen her hardy cheek, Like a molten coral, leak Through the leaves around it Of thick Chickasaws; but so, When I made more certain, lo! A red plum I found it.
I have found her racy lips, And her roguish finger-tips, But a haw or berry; Glimmers of her there and here, Just, forsooth, enough to cheer, And to make me merry.
Often from the ferny rocks Dazzling rimples of her locks At me she hath shaken; And I've followed--but in vain!-- They had trickled into rain, Sunlit, on the braken.
Once her full limbs flashed on me, Naked, where a royal tree Checkered mossy places With soft sunlight and dim shade,-- Such a haunt as myths have made For the Satyr races.
There, it seemed, hid amorous Pan; For a sudden pleading ran Through the thicket, wooing Me to search and, suddenly, From the swaying elder-tree, Flew a wild-dove, cooing.
The South saluted her mouth Till her breath was sweet with the South.
The North in her ear breathed low, Till her veins ran crystal and snow.
The West 'neath her eyelids blew, Till her heart beat honey and dew.
And the East with his magic old Changed her body to pearl and gold.
And she stood like a beautiful thought That a godhead of love had wrought....
How strange that the Power begot it Only to kill it and rot it!
Her heart is still and leaps no more With holy passion when the breeze, Her whilom playmate, as before, Comes with the language of the bees, Sad songs her mountain cedars sing, And water-music murmuring.
Her calm, white feet,--once fleet and fast As Daphne's when a god pursued,-- No more will dance like sunlight past The gold-green vistas of the wood, Where every quailing floweret Smiled into life where they were set.