The sky is tinged, as if the amorous flesh
Of that same queen shone through the girdle drawn
By her own kissing fervour through its mesh.
Last, glory of godhead! flickers, flames the fresh
First faint frail rose and arrow of the dawn.
SPRING
Mild glimpses of the quiet moon, let through
Tall groves of cedar, stain the glade; gleams mild
The kirtle of the unweaned spring, stained blue
From the blue breasts that suckle to the child.
Through the new-leavéd trees
The hidden stranger sees
The moon’s sweet light, the shadows listening
If a ghost-foot should fall:
And if a ghost-voice call ,
Tremble the leaves and light-streaks of the spring.
On wavering wing
The small clouds gallop in the windy sky:
The hoarse rooks croak and droop them to the nest:
One sweet small throat begins to sing,
Becomes the song, losing identity
Ere its wail wakes the long low-lying crest
That rears across the west. |
Spring, maiden-footed, steals across the space,
Sandalled with tremulous light, with flickering hair
Blown o’er the sweet looks of the fair child-face,
Like willows drooping o’er the liquid mere,
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