Then May recrossed the southern hill, —
Her heralds thronged the elms and eaves;
And Nature, with a sudden thrill,
Burst all her buds to leaves.

Loud o'er the slope a streamlet flung
Fresh music from its mountain springs,
As if a thousand birds there sung
And flashed their azure wings.

" Flow on, " the maiden sang, " and whirl,
Sweet stream, your music o'er the hill,
And touch with your light foot of pearl
The wheel of yonder mill. "

It touched the wheel, and in the vale

What time came in the welcome spring,
The happy maiden looked abroad,
And saw her lover gayly fling
The flax athwart the sod.

Hither and thither the yellow seed
Young Leon sprinkled o'er the plain,
As a farmer to his feathery breed
Full hands of golden grain.

As o'er the yielding mould he swayed,
He whistled to his measured tread
A happy tune; for he saw the maid
Spinning the future thread.

Or saw the shuttle in her room
Fly, like a bird, from hand to hand;
And then his arm, as at a loom,

To own her sway the woods were proud,
The solemn forest, wreathed and old;
To her the plumed harvests bowed
Their rustling ranks of gold.

Mantled in majesty complete,
She walked among her flocks and herds;
Where'er she moved, with voices sweet,
Sang all her laureate birds.

All happy sounds waved softly near,
With perfume from the fields of dew;
From every hill, bold chanticleer
His silver clarion blew.

The bees her honey-harvest reaped,
The fields were murmurous with their glee;

In middle of a noble space,
Of antique wood and boundless plain,
Queen Sylvia, regent of all grace,
Held long-descended reign.

The diadem her forehead wore
Was her bright hair, a golden band;
And she, as sceptre, ever bore
A distaff in her hand.

In russet train, with rustling tread,
She walked like morning, dewy-eyed,
And like Saint Agnes, ever led
A white lamb at her side.

And she to all the flowery land
Was dear as are the summer skies;
And round her waving mulberry-wand
Swarmed all the butterflies.

" Here mid the clover's crimson realm
We'll rest us through the glowing noon,
Beneath this broad and liberal elm,
Slow nodding to his hundredth June.

" On this low branch our scythes shall sway,
Fresh reeking from the field in bloom;
While, breathing o'er the new-mown hay,
The air shall fan us with perfume.

" And here the cottage maid shall spread
The viands on the stainless cloth, —
The golden prints, the snow-white bread,
The chilly pitcher crowned with froth.

" And you, fair youth, whose shepherd look

To you, my friend, whose youthful feet have known
The same bright hills and valleys as my own;
Whose eye learned beauty from the selfsame scene,
Which, still remembered, keeps our pathways green;
From the same minstrel-stream and poet-birds
Learned what I oft would fain recall in words: —
To you I bring this handful of wild flowers.
By memory plucked from those dear fields of ours;
And when their freshness and their perfume die,
On friendship's shrine still let them fondly lie.

A deathless music ...
Ah, Golden Bird,
In the morning I came to the sea and darkness was on it,
But the upper air was light ... dawn breathed ...

Out of the sea you rose until in the upper sky you shone,
O morning star ...
And you sang, and the song came down ...

" Follow, " you sang,
" For I am mystery deeper than song,
As deep as life ...
You never shall know what I mean, but following me
You shall know the path of air,
And know the path of Earth ...
Both paths are one in my golden shining. "

The song ceased:

Golden Bird —
One of the mightiest of seraphs
Stood by my side in the dark hour.

And he said:
The path of air of the singing bird is not for a mortal ...
On that path one is blown into stellar storms and nebulous cyclone ...
One is not a man, but a voice,
Not a soul, but a music ...

Take then the path of earth,
Of common things, of daily burdens, of human loves ...
That is the path to immortality ...
On that path man passes beyond the earth and beyond death
Into completion ...

I heard the seraph ...

Birds of our joy,
Irradiate, irradiate upward,
Upward opening like the fan of the sunrise till the sky is a burst
Of birds,
A storm of song ...

Wing higher,
Wing and wheel,
Dew-scatterers,
Sparkle-flingers!

O heavy with the night of sorrow,
My white-faced, my pale love,
Gather your moon-remembering hair in a glory about your head,
And put on the shining of your silks,
And turn and find me: my love, my love, I love you forever ...

I love you forever ... hear our wild birds bursting the grey twilight with the song-sun:

I paint your portrait:
I seize one of your beautiful moments:
I take you when you sit at the table before the mirror
And comb your hair and braid it and pin it up ...

First it is all a rhapsody of colour,
Blue-and-rose silk, and green stockings, and black pumps,
And eyes of the sky-colour and hair of intermelting tints of tan and olive and chestnut running with gold,
And faint roses in the cheeks and along the lips,
But somehow all a drift of sea-blue and shell-pink,
Something of the wild rose,