Primavera

Rustle of rain, bird-song and fitful breeze, And flower-like dancers, faerie shapes that seem Dryad and faun, beneath whose pale feet gleam Vale-lilies, violets, anemones; Here glides a nymph the satyr cannot seize, Diaphanous as dawn her garments stream — Elusive, luminous, an April dream, She fades through orange and white myrtle trees.

And yet how wistfully the dancers cling; And what vague weariness these spirits wear, Scattering wild-rose petals as they pass: Is it for Youth's short dream — the dream of Spring, Lovely as Flora through rain-scented air, Fleet as the dryad over rose-strewn grass?