Spring noons are lusty, morning primes are brave.
I shut my eyes, and in the flustered brakes
See the young Wind at work, with cherry-flakes
Speckling his shoulders brown; the little knave,
The Wind who tithes all flowers without the plucking,
Tickles the tender boskages to seize
Their fresh exhaled virtue for his breeze,
But cannot keep light-fingered bees from sucking.
The gummy sweetness off the unwrinkling leaf:
Nor stays for that, but bustles through the woods,
To strip the coverts of their sober hoods,
And bring November's quaker-rags to grief.
Unresting all day long: yet ere he goes
To bed, his pageant for the heaven invents,
Mapping the blue with crimson continents
And isles in amber archipelagoes.
Last, while the quiet sands of darkness run,
Up in a tree he sleeps with folded wings
Till daylight breaks his dream; then off he flings
To sup the dews and meet the morning sun.
Spring noons are lusty, morning primes are brave.
I shut my eyes, and in the flustered brakes
See the young Wind at work, with cherry-flakes
Speckling his shoulders brown; the little knave,
The Wind who tithes all flowers without the plucking,
Tickles the tender boskages to seize
Their fresh exhaled virtue for his breeze,
But cannot keep light-fingered bees from sucking.
The gummy sweetness off the unwrinkling leaf:
Nor stays for that, but bustles through the woods,
To strip the coverts of their sober hoods,
And bring November's quaker-rags to grief.
Unresting all day long: yet ere he goes
To bed, his pageant for the heaven invents,
Mapping the blue with crimson continents
And isles in amber archipelagoes.
Last, while the quiet sands of darkness run,
Up in a tree he sleeps with folded wings
Till daylight breaks his dream; then off he flings
To sup the dews and meet the morning sun.
I shut my eyes, and in the flustered brakes
See the young Wind at work, with cherry-flakes
Speckling his shoulders brown; the little knave,
The Wind who tithes all flowers without the plucking,
Tickles the tender boskages to seize
Their fresh exhaled virtue for his breeze,
But cannot keep light-fingered bees from sucking.
The gummy sweetness off the unwrinkling leaf:
Nor stays for that, but bustles through the woods,
To strip the coverts of their sober hoods,
And bring November's quaker-rags to grief.
Unresting all day long: yet ere he goes
To bed, his pageant for the heaven invents,
Mapping the blue with crimson continents
And isles in amber archipelagoes.
Last, while the quiet sands of darkness run,
Up in a tree he sleeps with folded wings
Till daylight breaks his dream; then off he flings
To sup the dews and meet the morning sun.
Spring noons are lusty, morning primes are brave.
I shut my eyes, and in the flustered brakes
See the young Wind at work, with cherry-flakes
Speckling his shoulders brown; the little knave,
The Wind who tithes all flowers without the plucking,
Tickles the tender boskages to seize
Their fresh exhaled virtue for his breeze,
But cannot keep light-fingered bees from sucking.
The gummy sweetness off the unwrinkling leaf:
Nor stays for that, but bustles through the woods,
To strip the coverts of their sober hoods,
And bring November's quaker-rags to grief.
Unresting all day long: yet ere he goes
To bed, his pageant for the heaven invents,
Mapping the blue with crimson continents
And isles in amber archipelagoes.
Last, while the quiet sands of darkness run,
Up in a tree he sleeps with folded wings
Till daylight breaks his dream; then off he flings
To sup the dews and meet the morning sun.