Comes the Spring a gypsy merchant,
Spreading out her wares for me,
Lace of shadow, tender shoots,
Balm and gold and sleepy roots,
Cloud embroidery.

“Here's pearl-white anemone,
Wet with snow—just out; and here
Lilac, honeysuckle vine,
Hiding flasks of honey-wine;
One wild rose! Too dear?

“Or perhaps this bit of sun,
I give it with a butterfly,
Would you look at blossom trees?
Peach or plum? A gold-wing breeze!
See him—will you buy?

“Last, but, Lady, pray beware,
An April dusk, all violet-sweet
Beneath the moon. One mad thrush calls,
Earth is so warm, so near! Night falls,
Lovers' lips will meet!”

I, the winter-hearted, search
Spring's new basket—turn away;
Neither under star nor flower
Could I find the singing hour
I would not have last May.

Circle of ages! undecaying mound!
Raised up by warlike Romans long ago,—
Where, many a time, the gladiatorial show
Was seen by eager crowds that sat around.
Here the applausive ‘Euge’ did resound
When nobler man had slain his bestial foe;
And groans were heard when, with the mortal blow,
They saw him prostrate, dying, on the ground.

O relict of that fair and mighty land,
From whose brave sons our fathers could not shield
The country and the homes they loved so well!
Long be it ere a hostile foreign hand
Shall raise again a structure on this field
Where I long dwelt, and would for ever dwell.